Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget
by Hughesish
Summary: This is a sequel to "Runaway Home" it follows the boys as a couple and will go through reichenbach. Please read the other story first if you haven't already, otherwise you will be thoroughly confused.
1. Chapter 1

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 1**

**Hope you guys like this, it's the beginning of part two of my three installments. If you haven't read the first one I suggest you do or this will be confusing. If you're are joining me from the other one then I welcome you and thank you for deciding to continue reading this story! (sorry it took longer to get this up than I thought!)**

It is important to note that by John's nineteenth year on this planet, first year in university, and third year living with Sherlock he had already seen nine hundred and eighty eight Thursdays come and go. It is also important to state that most of these Thursdays were less than important, just another day on the calendar. However a few of them held great importance. For example, one Thursday in primary school he'd shared his first kiss with Sarah Sawyer. Then of course there was the Thursday of his eleventh birthday when he'd found the stack of James Bond novels at the school library, those had been life changing. One Thursday his father broke one of his bones for the first time.

All of those Thursdays were important in some way, and John could recall each one. If you asked him about them being on Thursdays though, he would be sure to give you an odd look, because he really wouldn't know. He couldn't tell you what the weather was like on those days, or what he'd had for breakfast, or what he was wearing and he certainly didn't know what day of the week it was. No, these Thursdays held much importance to the young man, but they were events that had blurred with time so the details had faded. Which was common, not everyone had a mind palace after all, to which they could store such information away if needed.

For that reason, if someone were to ask John about one Thursday in particular that was important to him; he wouldn't know what to tell them. Because what John didn't know is that he had approximately three thousand, four hundred, and eighty four Thursdays left. Meaning there would be roughly four thousand, five hundred, and twenty four Thursdays in the entirety of his existence. He also didn't know that of all these Thursdays there would only be four that if you asked him he could tell you exactly what he ate for breakfast that morning, he could tell you the exact temperature along with whether the weather had varied even a minuscule amount throughout the day, he'd be able to tell you everything he'd worn right down to his boxers.

He didn't know of course because he hadn't lived through these four monumental days yet. Not yet, but soon. Too soon in fact, but then, things like this always come too soon. Even if he'd been warned there would have been no way to prepare himself, there could have been no way he wouldn't have remembered them for the rest of his life. For what it was worth, he wouldn't want to forget all of the Thursdays. No, not all of them...that wasn't the point though, the point wasn't how John felt about these Thursdays. In fact his feelings towards these days were the least important thing of all. What was important was why they happened and what happened because of them.

Which is why this story doesn't start with one of these Thursdays, or even anywhere close to any of these Thursdays, it starts with John getting ready for another day at 221b. Just another ordinary day that would for the most part fade with time and become just a string of events rather than vivid details. The particular events of this day were important though, despite John's future inaccuracies. Today was the day that he would announce to all that cared to know that he and Sherlock Holmes were in fact in a relationship, and had been for a little over a month now.

As he looked into the mirror he straightened out his relatively new cardigan over his pin stripped button up. Normally he could be found in a pair of jeans and a ratty old jumper or a tee shirt, but today it seemed important to look…professional. The detective didn't seem to notice (or he just didn't care) that John was more than a little uneasy about their public proclamation. He hadn't wanted to explain it really; there was something about saying it out loud that terrified him. It was illogical but he was afraid that if he told Sherlock then he, along with everyone else, would believe it. The 'it' being that their age difference making things…not so good.

He was nineteen now, and had been a consenting adult in the eyes of the law for some time, but that didn't really matter. In every day life people didn't think in terms of what was legal or not, they thought on the basis of their own opinions. Which was what unsettled him, there weren't a lot of people that found such an age difference inappropriate. Especially given their circumstances, Sherlock had been living with him since he was sixteen. Back when he'd first moved in they'd all accused the detective of using John sexually, now what would they think? What would they say about his boyfriend? Would they call him a pervert? Would they be disgusted? Worse, would they make Sherlock _feel_ disgusted?

He tried not to think about it. Sherlock had been most adamant about their declaration and had provided John with numerous reasons to feel so. The detective reasoned that their friends would want to know and that it was aggravating to pretend they weren't together in front of them. In his heart John knew that it was wrong, that secret relationships were doomed to failure, so of course he'd known that his attempts to prolong the announcement were pointless. It didn't matter how long they waited, people were going to say what they were going to say.

Besides, more important than being honest with his friends was making Sherlock feel safe. It might have sounded blarmy, claiming the world's greatest detective needed his boyfriend to make him feel safe, but it was true. Sherlock would probably never admit it but he was nervous. John had once been very keen to seek out any female attention, and as irrational as it was for the man to think the blonde would even consider leaving him for a woman, he could tell the detective feared it. That had been made more than clear last week when the blonde haired blue eyed embodiment of every heterosexual boy's fantasies had hit on him during a case. Sherlock, he recalled, had been less than pleased…

* * *

_Blonde hair, blue eyes, lush lips, and one spectacular arse. This girl was everything John had wanted about a year ago, right now however she was just being annoying. Her hand had shot to his thigh seconds after he'd seated himself next to her on the park bench and she seemed to have no intentions on moving it. John needed to be polite; he needed to know if she had in fact been at the football mach last week. Sherlock had noted that John was far friendlier and far more used to getting what he wanted from pretty girls (not that he sounded too pleased about that), which was why John was the one asking her about her where-abouts that day while the detective observed from the bench just a few yards away._

_The girl seemed nice enough, she was certainly **friendly **enough, and John couldn't really see her as the one who'd lopped that professor's head off if that's what the detective was thinking. However if it was really necessary for the case to find out if this girl had attended some football match, then he supposed he could put up with a bit of harmless flirting. He'd seen Sherlock do it plenty of times in the past, mostly to Molly the poor girl. So he mindlessly flirted just as he'd used to back in college, secretly leading the conversation back towards the football match, to the night the professor was murdered._

"_You go to Middlesex University yeah?"_

_John asked casually as he moved away from the girl's chatter about some band or another._

"_Yes, guess my brother mentioned that too, yeah I am. Why?"_

_She asked bright eyed and scooted just a bit closer to him. Yes, John felt a twinge of guilt, he was pretending to be a friend of the girl's brother, but it was for the good of the case Sherlock had said._

"_Well I heard that professor had been murdered a little while back, near one of the girl's dormitories even; guess I'm just a bit curious if you saw anything. I don't mean to upset you, the case just seems to strange is all."_

_John explained as innocently as he could manage. This whole lying business had never been his thing, but he was starting to get the hang of it._

"_Don't worry love no offense taken, I understand perfectly. It's a bloody mystery is what it is. My friend Donnie had a game that night so I was no where near the place (thank god), but they closed the whole building off for the investigation so now we're all sleeping at this shitty hotel. So, in short, no I didn't see a damn thing. However to put it in longer terms, that geek loosing his head means I'm desperate for a decent bed with something other than bugs trying to crawl in with me."_

_She finished with lowered eye lids and a very purposeful rimming of her lips with her tongue. John must have looked too closely at that pink muscle because it wasn't moments later that she'd taken it as a cue to swing one leg over his own and bring her knee in direct contact with John's very unassuming crotch. Her hands were on John's shoulders and her face was far too close to his own than he'd liked. Her breath smelled of coffee and cherry lip balm as it drifted across his face._

"_You wouldn't happen to have any suggestions would you?"_

_She asked seductively and pressed her body closer to his so that her breasts came to right bellow his neck. John fought the urge to gulp but instead feebly attempted to gently remove the girl._

"_That's a very nice offer, but unfortunately-"_

"_He's taken."_

_Sherlock's baritone growled out so harshly that both the girl and John were a bit frightened. She moved so that she could see the detective but remained on top of John and observed him curiously._

"_Who are-"_

"_His boyfriend, obviously."_

_Sherlock hissed and lurched forward towards the two. She let out a yelp when the man yanked her off of John and tossed her to the side as though her very skin were poisonous. She glared at him but the detective didn't seem to mind, he only had eyes for the boy._

"_John, let's go."_

_Sherlock demanded tight lipped. Normally John would refuse to be ordered around in such a fashion, but given that the detective seemed so upset he figured it was an argument for another time. He stood and offered an apologetic look to the girl that he thought for a moment Sherlock would strangle him for before the man grabbed him by the sleeve. He led the two of them through the park at a fast pace and without saying a word. To say John was worried was a bit of an understatement._

"_She __**touched **__you!"_

_Sherlock had snarled once they'd returned back to the flat._

"_Yes, but like you said it was for the case. Besides I got-"_

"_Sod the case! I don't want to see another girl touch you for any reason! You are mine John Watson, and mine alone; there should be no doubt in anyone's mind about __**that**__!"_

_Sherlock had barked out as he cornered John in the living room. The back of the boy's knees were pressing against the arm chair as the detective loomed over him menacingly. He was just about to suggest a relaxing cup of tea when his lips were assaulted by the man's in a most demanding manner. He fought to stay standing for a while but Sherlock was insistent and soon he was sitting in the arm char with a lap full of detective. Sherlock's tongue was fast and claimed every last millimeter of John's mouth before pulling out completely._

"_I don't like to __**share **__John."_

_He'd said darkly before descending upon the boy's bare neck._

* * *

Yes, John was fairly certain that Sherlock was uncomfortable with people not knowing their status. The hickeys he'd received that day were proof enough for John. Sherlock didn't like the idea of anyone else with John, the boy assumed it stemmed from the fact that there was more evidence that John might_enjoy_being with someone else. There was no need for the detective to worry, but saying that wouldn't do much good (besides he'd tried that already). Sherlock needed proof and that's why despite his own hesitance John was going to go through their list of people who "needed" to know. With that in mind he took one last glance at himself in the mirror and let out an anxious sigh. _It's going to be a bad week._


	2. Chapter 2

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 2**

**Sorry! Next one should be up sooner!**

John let out a deep sigh, there was no amount of gussying up that would make this go any smoother. He trudged down the stairs with a rising level of anxiety. This would be the first of their three announcements and John was certain this would be the worst of all of them. Sherlock had invited everyone to Angelo's under some pretense that John wasn't sure he even wanted to know. Everyone meaning Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly. Everyone meaning all the people they dealt with every day, all the people John would have to look in the eye _every_ day. John was very much aware of how detrimental it would be if even one of those people disagreed with their relationship.

Sherlock didn't seem worried though, he was excited. Typical, Sherlock was always excited by what should be truly terrifying. He had left the flat early in a rush; apparently there were some 'final touches' that needed to be taken care of. John felt a cold shiver run through his body at the thought. What could the detective be planning? Whatever it was there was a good chance John wasn't going to like it. That didn't really matter though; all that mattered was that he'd promised to go. He could dread it all he wanted, but he'd given his word to be there so he made his way out of the flat despite the desperate pleading of his inner voice.

The cab ride over was horrible and over far too quick. He arrived at Angelo's precisely on time and with a growing knot in his stomach. As he entered through those well known doors he immediately recognized the crowd and was positive he'd gone into shock. Everyone was there except Sherlock and there were two additional guests, Sally and Anderson. He fought to stay calm. It was one thing for their friends to be here, but those two were the detective and his own personal hate brigade. They wouldn't pass up on the opportunity to mock them. John's face must have been frighteningly pale because just at that moment Mrs. Hudson swooped in.

"Whatever is the matter dearie? You look white as a ghost!"

She exclaimed and took his hand to lead him over to a chair. He batted her away politely so to dissuade her attentions, he didn't want any more attention then he was about to receive.

"I'm fine. It's just…did Sherlock invite Sergeant Donovan or Anderson?"  
John responded feebly as the group moved closer to the anxious boy.

"Of course not, but that hardly matters. If the freak is tampering with official police business then he doesn't get to pick and choose who investigates."

Sally snorted and sent John a look of contempt.

"Hey, do you really need to be on bloody suspension again?"

Lestrade chided, shutting the Sergeant right up.

"Suspension?"

John questioned as he was now completely lost. Since when was this a case? Or had Sherlock only told them it was a case? And when did Sally get suspended, and for what?

"Yes, uh, Sherlock filed a complaint a while back…that's not really important though. We're just wondering why the git called me down here along with the rest of you. What's this new case he's got?"

Lestrade questioned with growing curiosity. John blinked a few times as he took at the scene. Sally and Anderson were glaring at him, Mrs. H was waiting for him to faint, Molly looked like she was very uncomfortable, and Lestrade was searching for answers.

"I haven't the foggiest. I didn't hear anything about a case; he was just organizing a get together as far as I gathered."

John replied quickly and moved so that he could use the table behind himself to support some of his weight.

"I wasn't aware any case was involved either."

Mrs. Hudson added in as he placed herself at John's side with a steadying hand to his shoulder.

"Neither did I…he was rather vague really."

Molly added in quietly. Lestrade was silent for a few moments as he listened and processed what everyone had just said.

"I didn't realize he was even capable of making social calls…I guess I just assumed."

The inspector mused mainly to himself. Anderson let out a huff of annoyance that coupled well with Sally's eye roll; John just prayed it meant they'd be leaving now.

"So you don't know why Sherlock called us all here do you John? Because you seem awfully troubled and quite out of sorts, I mean, you aren't even dressed as you normally are."

The elder woman commented as she pet the back of John's head in a motherly fashion. There was concern dripping off of every syllable she uttered and it made John long to just confide in her. He desperately wanted to hug her and explain everything. If there was one person in this world he could trust, it was this wonderful woman. However it just so happened that this was not an option since there were far too many other people in the room. So instead of letting his walls come crumbling down he built them up even stronger.

"I'm fine, and this is something I wear. You must just be used to seeing me lounging about the flat. I, um, I'm not sure…Sherlock was supposed to be here by now…"

John rambled as he looked down at his watch to see that the detective should have been there a good ten minutes ago at this point.

"Knowing Sherlock he could have forgotten this meeting entirely if he found something more entertaining."

Molly supplied weakly from the back of the crowd. Lestrade nodded in agreement as did Mrs. H. However John knew better, Sherlock wouldn't miss this for the world. A flash of panic went through him like a bolt of lightening. Nothing would have kept that man away, _nothing,_ so where was he now? The blonde pulled out his phone rapidly and began typing out a frantic text just as the front doors swung open.

"Sherlock!"

Mrs. Hudson greeted warmly from John's side. The rest of the group acknowledged his presence with nods, or in some cases, heated glares. Sherlock paid little attention to them though, he only had eyes for John. John who was growing weaker by the second as he realized now that the detective was here it was time. They would have to share their secret, in front of Anderson and Donovan, and risk loosing all these other people as friends. All he could think of was the look of disgust and hatred that might overtake these loving faces any moment. Lestrade would be angry for Sherlock 'taking advantage' of him; he was a police officer and a father after all. Molly would be heart broken that Sherlock would never lover her, angry that all that flirting had been manipulation, and jealous that John had gained his favor. Anderson and Donovan would be their usual hateful selves, full of snide comments and rude gestures. Mrs. Hudson would be disappointed.

Yes, he could see it all unfolding in his mind, like some sadistic horror film. He could feel the hurt, the pain, the ever lasting longing for what was to be lost. It was as if it had already happened. It was as though he could feel their friends slipping between his fingers. There would be no more friendly conversation at crime scenes and John doubted highly that Lestrade would ever make good on that deal to take him out for a pint now. Molly would never do favors for them; Sherlock would have to find some other place to find experiment material. John would no longer have afternoon tea with Mrs. Hudson.

Perhaps it was illogical and completely unfounded, but John couldn't help but be absorbed into the thought. He just couldn't escape the idea that they wouldn't take it well. So with shortening breaths and a dangerously fast heart beat he let the panic and fear take over. There was no reason to fight it; John knew that nothing he told himself would bring any comfort. He'd lived long enough to know that this wouldn't end well._ Blokes_ _are blokes_. He could almost hear his father screaming it at him, the words tearing through him and leaving him exposed. The boy was so consumed by the onslaught of frenzied emotions he hardly noticed when his knees hit the floor, or when his head followed shortly after. Even if he had, he wouldn't have cared. His mind was far more focused on reciting those memorable lines that had taught him such a valuable lesson. As useless a teacher as his father was he had taught him that, he'd taught him about hate. It didn't matter if their friends were ok with homosexuals, there would be something else, there always was. People didn't like what they didn't understand, and no one would understand this, they never had. Even when he and the detective had just been friends they'd earned themselves odd looks and some curt comments. John knew that this would just make everything worse; he'd known it all along.

The boy would argue to no avail later that he hadn't passed out. No one would believe him but he knew he hadn't; he'd been in some odd state of shock. Because his mind was still buzzing with pained thoughts and he could see Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock hovering over his face. He couldn't hear anything, at least not in a normal sense; everyone's words came out in loud murmurs. If he concentrated long enough he could make out a word or two, which was just enough to know that Sherlock was panicking. John tried to lift his arm to comfort the man but his limbs felt heavy and numb, so the movement was clumsy and he couldn't get his hand to stop trembling. The gesture didn't seem to comfort, but only served to trouble the detective more. Sherlock took hold of the hand and John wished he could feel the heat from that touch, but he struggled to bring himself back from the clutches of his fear.

After what felt like an eternity the boy finally started to calm the storm of emotions enough to start regaining control of himself. He'd probably only been on the floor for a few minutes but Sherlock acted as if it had been days. The man was frantic and while one hand was placed firmly on John's back to hold him off of the ground the other was running over his cheeks, forehead, and pulse points. There was a nervous smile twitching on the detective's lips as John's eyes slowly came back into full focus.

"John!"

Sherlock gasped and pulled the boy in for a tight hug.

"What happened, are you alright?"

He asked with great concern and pulled John away to get another look at him.

"I'm not sure…I just fell I guess. I'm fine now."

John replied with a weak smile. He wasn't fine, not really, not unless his falling had altered the universe in some way that would change how people operated. Because he knew that he had collapsed due to the weight of the gut wrenching fear he was experiencing. That fear wouldn't go away until these three announcements were over with, but it would be replaced with pain. He'd seen Harry go through it; he knew the looks he'd be getting from now on whenever Sherlock and he went out. Sherlock obviously didn't pick up on the boy's line of thought as he was growing more relieved while John just felt that anxiety building once again.

"Don't do that ever again."

Sherlock said breathlessly and pressed his forehead to John's. The boy didn't have time to stop it, before he knew what was happening the detective was kissing him. Sherlock's lips moved against his in a slow caress that in any other instance would have made his chest tighten and knees go weak. In any other instance John would have leaned into that kiss and wrapped his arms around that porcelain neck. However in that very instance, John did none of those things, what he did do was freeze. He froze right in place as his eyes went wide with horror._ Sherlock was kissing him_. Sherlock was kissing him right in front of everybody and they hadn't said a bloody thing yet. It didn't take the world's only consulting detective long to realize that the boy wasn't kissing him back. He pulled away and observed his face critically for a moment before it dawned on him. They both looked up at the small crowd of their friends, enemies, and a restaurant owner (when did he get there?) who were watching them with express interest.

"What…was that?"

Lestrade questioned in a tone that could have either been quieted rage or intense curiosity. Sherlock looked to John with an expression that most others would see as blank, but the boy could see the hidden apology behind those bright blue eyes. It wouldn't help him much, but it did provide some comfort, at least he knew the detective hadn't planned on such a bold move. He wouldn't have put it past him though.

"If you must know, _that_ was me sharing a kiss with my boyfriend."

Sherlock stated proudly as he stood up to look down at the inquiring man. When he was met with silence the detective turned and held out a hand for John to take. Which he did and propped himself up on shaky legs as he looked around the room anxiously. The expressions of their audience members were that of shock and bemusement. Well…everyone except for Angelo who was grinning widely.

"Knew it!"

He mouthed excitedly before rushing to tend to some customer. John smiled nervously as he and Sherlock stood hand in hand in front of the group in continued silence.

"Don't look so surprised, you all knew he liked me before I even did, it was only a matter of time."

Sherlock quipped, clearly growing frustrated with the dragging silence. Mrs. Hudson smiled honestly at the two of them and walked forward to place a hand on each of their cheeks.

"I had a feeling you two were up to something these past few weeks, I'm glad to know it's that you two have finally gotten together and nothing that will destroy the flat."

She said softly and with a quick wink towards John. The boy smiled back with astonishment. She was…happy? His heart fluttered in his chest and lifted his spirits higher than they'd been in days.

"Well, I wouldn't say that…"

Sherlock smirked earning him a swat from Mrs. Hudson. John blushed but the smile didn't leave his face.

"I hate to break up this moment and all, but isn't that a bit perverse?"

Sally chimed in accusingly. Sherlock snapped his head in the woman's direction and fixed her with a venomous glare.

"Why? Because of you're homophobic beliefs? Really Sergeant Donovan I thought we'd straightened this out before, or do you require further encouragement to move past such a primitive mind set? I could always place a call to my brother."

Sherlock gritted out from his clenched jaw. The grip on John's hand tightened providing the boy a reassuring pressure, he squeezed back in silent thanks. For now Sherlock was strong, and John needed that, because he couldn't do this. This was John's whole world on the line; he knew what was at risk. If this was too much, if Sherlock couldn't handle the very possible hate they would face on a daily basis then he would be back to where he was when he'd first come to the city. Alone.

"Actually I was going to say because he's just a naïve kid and you're a psychotic full grown man. Because Sherlock Holmes doesn't make friends, and he certainly doesn't get boyfriends, but the man you're pretending to be could. I've seen you at crime scenes together; you're a different person entirely! He's just like any other person you manipulate to get what you want for a case. Only this time it's not for a case is it? No, Sherlock Holmes had to let some boy move in with him, and that kid just so happened to be one of the most obedient and accepting ones around. So you hatched up a little scheme in that sick head of yours and used your powers of manipulation to make him like you, so he would never leave you. Because now you've got him don't you? Now he'll be at your beck and call for the rest of your life."

Sally snarled offensively at the detective in response and ended with a stiff nod towards the man. John could feel a surge of new emotions breaking through the old. He'd worried about this, lost sleep over this, he'd assumed he'd just curl up into a ball over this. Yes, he was still afraid, yes he was still hurt, but he was angry too. No. He was damn well pissed! He'd known this was going to happen, but it was different to experience it, and maybe he'd already spent so much time being scared of it he was ready to get mad. Suddenly he knew that he had been right, there would be people like Sally, using their words as knives. But there would be people like Mrs. Hudson too, and there would be Sherlock. He wouldn't let a few ill words ruin his new family. He would fight this; he would force people to accept them, because they weren't going anywhere if John could help it.

Lestrade pulled her aside immediately before the boy could say anything and was whispering harshly at the woman. After a moment of straining to read his lips he gave up and turned to Sherlock who if John didn't know any better he'd have thought was just punched in the gut. The blonde stilled instantly, he wondered what was going through the man's mind. He wasn't normally so affected by Donovan's comments and it concerned John to see him this way. The boy wondered if Sherlock was questioning his own motives as he'd thought the man would do. He knew right away that that was unacceptable. The detective was no more allowed to question such things than anyone else.

"Sherlock?"

He questioned quietly, hoping not to draw attention towards themselves as everyone was more preoccupied with trying to listen in on Lestrade and Sally's conversation. Sherlock turned to him with a pained expression that broke his heart.

"Don't listen to her Sherlock, she doesn't know what she's talking about."

John said softly, and for a moment Sherlock smiled. It was small but heartfelt which made the boy smile back. That didn't last for more than a moment though as it seemed that not everyone had been paying as close attention to Sally and Lestrade as he'd assumed.

"Says the mind washed imp."

Anderson snorted out loudly in John's direction. Mrs. Hudson let out a scandalized gasp before John had time to even sharpen his gaze towards the man. When Sherlock remained silent John decided that it would be his turn to take Anderson down a peg for once.

"Fuck you Anderson!"

He said in retort causing Anderson's face to fall and to take a confused step backward. Ok, not the best come back, but he was still just a ball of nerves at this point. After all eyes were focused on him he cleared his throat to continue.

"What I mean to say is…well, fuck you is actually kind of what I meant to say, just not so bluntly. But I also need to make something perfectly clear. I am not some defenseless child ok? I'm not incapable of standing up for myself. And you know what; I'm not just some blindly obedient servant or something. I listen to what he has to say because I know he's smart enough to know what he's talking about and I don't have so much pride that I mind being told I'm wrong now and again. In fact if you'd listen to him a bit more often you might learn a thing or two. Both you and Sergeant Donovan spend so much time thinking of petty insults that you miss everything of importance. So let's be honest with ourselves, you two couldn't care less about me, you made that bloody clear when all that shit with my blog happened. All you care about is tearing him down because you're so pathetic that you refuse to admit that he's better than you or that you could learn something from him so instead you just try to convince everyone he's just as stupid as you are."

Have you ever heard an entire restaurant go completely silent? No? Well neither had John until just then. No one even breathed. The boy looked around at the stunned faces and then gave a curt nod before leading Sherlock out by their still clasped hands. Before he pushed open the doors though he turned back to observe the group one last time.

"Oh, and for the record, Sherlock Holmes does make friends, he's just better at making enemies."

With that the boy left them to their silence and hailed a cab for the detective and himself. The ride home was quiet and Sherlock didn't utter a single word, though he didn't let go of John's hand either. Once they were back in the flat however, he spoke up.

"John…"

He practically whispered when John took his hand away to remove his shoes.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

The boy answered, standing up straight to look the man in the eye.

"What you did back there…that was…it was good."

The detective muttered quietly but with earnest. John smiled warmly and leaned forward to place a chaste kiss on Sherlock's lips.

"Any time, love."

And he meant it too, there would never be time from there on out that John would not stand up for the detective that he had grown so fond of. He thought it quite a revelation, to realize so suddenly that this one man could make him so brave, could fill him with such purpose. Even if that purpose was just teaching idiots like Sally and Anderson a lesson.


	3. Chapter 3

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 3**

**Just to clear up any confusion, none of the Thursdays have happened yet. When they do I promise it will be very obvious, like, I'll say something. Well…John's third persony person will say something. Yeah. **

"Sherlock, where are you going?"

The detective stopped wrapping the scarf around his neck and spun around to face the questioning boy seated on the sofa.

"Lestrade has a case for me."

He stated as if it were the simplest thing in the world. John didn't seem to think so as he stared incredulously at the man for a moment before standing to move towards him.

"You realize what today is, right? Where we're supposed to be going in thirty minutes?"

He inquired as he continued moving closer to the man.

"Of course I'm aware John, I'm almost never _not_ aware."

Sherlock replied smoothly earning him a scowl.

"Then why are you leaving for a case? I doubt even you could solve a case fast enough to make it back to Bill's in time."

John continued with a growing level of acidity in his voice that made Sherlock want very much for this conversation to end soon.

"I figured you could handle this one yourself, besides, you wouldn't want some murderer walking around would you?"

He explained coolly and darted his eyes away from John's when he saw the intensifying glare.

"Fine, go. I'm sure I'll manage."

The blonde said with an irritated huff and retreated back to the sofa where he'd left the morning paper. Sherlock thought it best perhaps to attempt a friendly parting phrase but his voice got caught in his throat so instead he just fled. He didn't want to leave John to take care of this on his own, but it was for the best. The detective knew it was for the best, he knew it, but the fact did little to alleviate the guilt pooling in the pit of his stomach. He hailed a cab and stewed in the back seat as he made his way towards St. Bart's.

The detective was far too good at his trade not to have noticed. That was why this was the only suitable course of action. Besides, John would be fine with his friends, they were an understanding lot. Bill already knew and had reacted enthusiastically, so enthusiastically he insisted John make his announcement at the Murray household. If Bill was anything to go by John would be met with little controversy. He would have his friends and the detective wouldn't be on hand to insult any of them or to take that moment of relief from the boy. Sherlock knew how stressed he'd been, he felt the way he trembled in his dreams and how he'd taken to drinking three more cups of tea recently. That was exactly why he needed that moment with his friends, and why he didn't need the one Sherlock was about to have with Lestrade.

* * *

John would have been putting it mildly if he said that he'd wanted to punch the detective. He also would have been lying (well…only a little bit), because what he really wanted to do was hold him close. The boy could envision nothing more comforting than to be pressed close to the tall man, wrapped in his arms, far away from this house. It seemed so much bigger than he remembered; the doors appeared large enough to fit a mountain through them. Then again, perhaps it wasn't the house that felt big, but John who felt small.

He didn't have time to worry long; David was at the door before the boy had even worked up the courage to knock. Bill's father smiled down at him knowingly and to John's surprise stepped outside. The man shut the door softly behind himself and then fixed his gaze back onto the nervous wreck on his front porch. John wasn't sure what to expect now, but he assumed this meant he was going to have to talk. More than likely about his feelings. He hated talking about his feelings. He hated Sherlock for leaving him alone to talk about his feelings.

"Sherlock couldn't make it?"

David asked quietly and his eyes went a bit softer as he spoke. John nodded stiffly, not sure if he could vocalize if he wanted to at this point. He didn't feel as nervous as he had the other day at Angelo's, he didn't think he would faint, but it was still troubling. His friends were understanding but anything was possible. If John was being completely honest he knew that he'd have felt a lot more at ease if he knew why the detective didn't want to come, why he'd left him here alone. He would have felt better if he didn't have to do this alone period really. If John was lying to himself though he'd say he wasn't nervous at all, he was just shaking with the rage he felt towards that man right now, and that he would punch him the very instance he saw him next.

"That's unfortunate."

David almost whispered, but it was enough to pull John out of his thoughts.

"I wanted you to know you've got nothing to worry about, ok? Everyone here is here because they care about you and support you. Although…admittedly William may also be in it to interrogate all of Bill's friends along with prodding you for details."  
The man said softly but with a dulled sense of amusement.

"I know…it's just…strange I guess. Even if they're ok with it everything is going to be different now, ya know? It wouldn't be as big a deal if Sherlock had just come, I don't know how I'll be able to handle their looking at me different without him here."

John confessed as he stared intensely at the steps. There was a moment of silence and the boy didn't look up until he felt a large hand clasp his shoulder.

"I can't guarantee they won't look at you differently, because this is something that will make you different John. You're doing what a lot of people are too afraid to. Some people like to make this seem as though it's as simple as saying the words. But it's not; you're revealing a part of yourself that not everyone is going to accept. There are those out there that will hate you simply because you exist. John…what I'm trying to say is you're doing something incredibly brave this week, and your friends are going to see that. Most of all they're going to see the caliber of man you are. So yes, I can't guarantee that they won't look at you differently, what I can guarantee is that if they do it will be out of admiration."

David stated with purpose and with a low voice that washed over the boy soothingly. He smiled widely and with a sense of relief, why couldn't David be _his _dad? Without another word the man led them into the house. The whole place seemed to be buzzing with life and he could here the excited chatter of his friends and one particularly loud actor. John smiled brightly at David as the two of them entered the dining room. There was a large spread of food on the table and all of his friends were huddled together at the far end of the room. Bill, Oliver, Clint, Lizzie, and Mary; all of them seemed so happy. John's smile widened as they turned towards him and greeted him warmly. Then there was William.

"John! Oh John, you're here, finally! Ok, everyone into position, just like we rehearsed."

William sang and all of the kids lined up along the back wall. John eyed them all curiously,_ rehearsed_? What exactly was the man talking about? He looked to David who looked extremely guilty before falling into line with the rest of the group.

"What's going on here?"

John questioned suspiciously. No one was able to make eye contact with the boy which only confused him further, the growing number of nervous coughs wasn't either.

"You're the one who had something to tell us John, remember? So go on, we're listening."

William said quickly. John scanned the group once more, taking in every twitching lip, every shuffling foot, and every wide panicked smile. He sighed deeply.

"You all already know, don't you?"

* * *

Sherlock walked into the morgue with his head held high and his hands clasped behind his back. Molly looked as though she was preparing to run at the first chance (likely she would) and Lestrade was by her side, rolling his shoulders in anticipation. The detective stopped just in front of the pair on the other side of the slab. He observed briefly that the body beneath him had been strangled and (judging by the angle and the obvious use of a gardening hose) it was clear who the culprit was. So clear in fact that Sherlock knew that his previous deduction was right, Lestrade didn't need his help, he needed to lure him away.

"Where's John?"

Lestrade asked tightly and crossed his arms over his chest like he so often did.

"Had plans. No matter, I assume this has more to do with me then him, wouldn't you say?"

Sherlock replied equally as tight but just a bit edgier.

"Quite the opposite actually, this has everything to do with him."

Lestrade retorted shortly and narrowed his eyes slightly.

"I think I can safely say that this case was just a ruse so you could get me to come talk to you, so perhaps you should stop dancing around the issue here and just say what you're so desperately trying to say."

Sherlock spit out resulting in an intensifying glare from the inspector.

"I'll just put this body away then…"

Molly said quietly and began pushing the metal slab back into its slot.

"Since you're here Molly, and its obvious how Lestrade feels about this, what do you think? You came, I assume because your presence was required for the body the inspector needed for his lie, but is there something else? Hmm? Do you agree with him on whatever ridiculous terms in which he's decided John and I shouldn't be together."

Sherlock almost snarled and Molly looked up at him with wide eyes. In the moments which Molly spent sputtering rather than saying anything of importance the detective realized there was a tightening in his chest. One that he had found to mean hurt or disappointment. He didn't have many friends, but those he did have (not that he'd ever admit this) were very close to him. So despite himself he found Lestrade's disapproval upsetting and hoped that Molly did not agree with him.

"Sherlock, I…you and John have always been close. I suppose I didn't know this was coming but I can't say I'm all that shocked. I know why Greg is upset, and I think he has good reason to be, but I'm not sure I agree entirely. My mother was twenty when she met my father at university as one of his students…I guess what I'm saying is the age difference may be a bit of a put off for some, but it's a very blurred line of what's considered acceptable and what isn't in some cases."

Molly stammered out as she shut the body into its small refrigerated space and removed her gloves. Sherlock nodded towards her just before the woman finally made a quick escape. That left him alone with one very disapproving inspector.

"Say it; just spit it out so we can get this over with. I want to be home when John gets back."

Sherlock said quickly. He really did want this over with, Molly's words had only offered a fraction of relief and he felt desperate to get back to 221b. The thought of Lestrade being so upset with him reminded him of his university days, being fished out of the gutters with fresh new track lines for the man to berate him about.

"I think that if John was my son…I'd find a way to have you arrested."

* * *

They were all laughing now, mostly from relief, they because they were hiding this from him, and John because there was nothing he had to hide any more. These were his closest friends and it felt so good to finally just be open with them. Even if he didn't tell them himself, just confirming it was enough of a confession for him. Apparently William had let it slip a while back when inviting everyone, though Bill had been the one to tell Mary for whatever reason. After the laughter and congratulations had died out, John found that it had come time he answered some questions he had no idea needed answering. Such as:

How long have you been together exactly?

Do you count crime scenes as dates?

Is he less weird in private?

How did you get together exactly?

John supposed it was only fair he answer them, they had thrown him a party after all. William was asking the most questions, and most of them were over dramatic or exceedingly romantic. Bill cringed each time his dad opened his mouth which John couldn't help but smile at. It was cruel, but he found his friend's discomfort highly amusing. Then Clint had to open his big mouth.

"So wait, who's on top?"

He asked with a mouth full of crisps. There was a large gasp that John assumed came from William but he hadn't seen. He was certain his face went bright red and he wasn't sure if he was expected to answer that or not. Luckily he didn't have to decide, Lizzie made the choice for him.

"You're so gross Clint! That's no body's business but John's!"

She scolded and angrily grabbed the bowl of crisps in his hands to slam them on the table out of spite.

"Now was that really necessary? Come on, it's the sort of things mates ask."

Clint argued and soon there was a full scale debate on their hands. Was it right to ask? Would he have asked something like that if John was seeing a woman? John was half sure he'd also heard a separate debate from Oliver and Bill over the top or bottom issue. John couldn't have interjected if he'd wanted as not a moment later he was being pulled outside of the room and into a large hallway. Mary was standing in front of him with large doe eyes and nervously biting her bottom lip.

"Um, you need something Mary?"

He questioned curiously as the girl seemed to look everywhere but at him.

"Yeah, I just…I wanted to talk to you about all this."

She said with a bit more confidence. John had always admired that about Mary, her confidence, which is why he found her sheepishness so odd.

"Well, go for it, I'm sure whatever you've got to say can't be any worse than asking about my bedroom practices."

John replied lightly, hoping to clear away some of the girl's anxiety.

"I don't want you to take this the wrong way John, but are you sure about all of this? I mean…are you sure you want to be with him. Are you certain this is right?"

She inquired quietly but firmly. John was positive his bottom jaw had dislocated itself at that statement. He'd thought maybe Clint; perhaps even Lizzie might be opposed to his new relationship, but Mary? She was almost as close to him as Bill was.

"Mary I…yes. Why wouldn't I be?"

He answered with a tone that betrayed just how shocked he was. Mary looked a bit guilty for a moment before she cleared her throat and straightened herself out.

"John, I care about you…a lot, so understand that I'm only saying this as a friend who's concerned for you. I just think…are you sure this isn't just some misplaced feelings? I mean, when you told Bill and I about your dad, I was crushed, but then I thought about you and Sherlock. Well, I had-um-I had always imagined you saw him as a sort of substitute. Perhaps not a father figure per say, maybe more like a brother, but a strong male role model, especially since you moved in with him just after you'd run away. What I'm trying to say here is…is this what you want, or what you think _he _wants:"

* * *

"You know very well that our relationship is perfectly legal!"

Sherlock shouted at the silver haired man.

"He was sixteen when he moved in with you! _Sixteen_! He was a kid, he's still a kid! You are responsible for him, he looks up to you! Of course he got a crush on you! I had a crush on my primary school teacher when I was a kid that doesn't mean she should have dated me!"

Lestrade roared back stepping closer to the detective so they were toe to toe.

"That's different! I was only twenty five when he moved in, and it's not like I was sizing him up the minute he walked in the flat or something. Besides, I'm not responsible for him and I never was. He did as he pleased, and he still does."

Sherlock retorted defensively. Lestrade shook his head angrily, as though he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"You set out rules for him, I remember, you told him what to do and how to act. You still do, you order him about like he's your little henchman. It's not appropriate for one person to hold more power in a relationship than another!"

Lestrade grated out from clenched teeth and the sharp edge to his voice cut through the detective worse than a heated blade.

"So, what, you think it's inappropriate? You think what I'm doing is wrong, you think _I'm_ wrong…why don't you just come out and say it Lestrade. You're certainly thinking it loud enough. You think I'm a pervert! I should have known considering how easily you assumed he'd been a rent boy when you first met him! Do you really think so little of me, that I would be attracted to a child?"

Sherlock snapped bitterly. The tightening in his chest was getting worse; he'd expect something like this from Sally or Anderson, but not Lestrade. Not his friend.

"Sherlock, I…I don't want to think that, but it's not like any of us have seen you with someone before, what am I supposed to think? John's a boy; I haven't even seen him grow a single hair on his chin. You can't really be so blind as to not see that you two are nearly a decade a part. You're twenty eight Sherlock, nearly in your thirties. John is still a teenager. Please…I just want you to think about what you're doing and maybe why you're doing it. Because I honestly would love any excuse to just put all of this behind us. As bad a choice as I think you're making, I'm still your friend and I care as much about you as I do John. I don't want to see anybody get hurt."

Lestrade finished solemnly and backed away from the detective slowly. Sherlock ignored the stinging sensation building behind his eyes and clenched his fists.

"No one will be getting hurt, because John's not a boy. That is what you fail to realize Lestrade. I have, and never will, see him as a boy. From the very first day I saw him I knew he was different, it wasn't until much later I saw just how different. John is strong, and brave, and smart…he just hasn't figured that all out yet. One day, one day John is going to figure out the kind of man he is, the one he's been all along, that all of you were just too _stupid_ to see."

With that Sherlock stormed out of the building, not caring whether or not the older man had more to say.

* * *

"No."

"John, please I'm not trying to-"

"Stop, just stop there. I get it, you want to help, and you think I'm in danger. Well I'm not. I'm not one of your pet projects Mary, you aren't going to attempt to psychoanalyze me or some shit. I'm with Sherlock because I want to be, the rest is none of your damn business."

"It is my business! Of course it's my business! I'm your friend John; I don't want to see you get hurt!"

"If you're my friend then take my word for it when I say I'm not going to get hurt, I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself."

"I can't, I can't just watch something bad happen to you. I know how much you care for him, and how important you think it is to have that excitement in your life, all those cases. But you can get that other ways; you don't need to do this if you don't want to. There are other people who love you, who could offer you just as much excitement."

"Oh like who? Come on Mary, who's out there whose going to be better for me than Sherlock? Who's going to want to go chasing after criminals at three in the morning and then get back to the flat to snog each other brains out? I appreciate the concern but I dated nearly sixty girls and none of them-"

"Me, I would."

John was pretty sure if he hadn't had so much adrenaline pumping through his system the shock of that statement alone would have knocked him out. Mary was staring at him with glistening eyes and a stance that looked like she was ready to either run or fight. He had to just look at her for a few moments before he could make any noise.

"What?"

He asked quietly.

"I would-could-I could do that. Maybe not with criminals, maybe not with fancy deductions or a big swishy coat but I could be exciting. I…I was planning on traveling around Africa after school; there is an excellent program for it. I-whenever I imagine myself down there it's…with you. You're so brave and smart and funny and being near you is almost enough excitement to last me a life time. I think I love you John, I think I have since I first met you, and could you blame me? I guess you're like…my Sherlock, as bitterly ironic as that is…we could go exploring Africa together, you and I, it would be an adventure. Our adventure."

She declared boldly and took hold of John's hand. He stared at her for a while more before he cleared his throat.

"I had no idea you felt that way."

He stated dumbly. She ducked her head to get a better view of the floor boards as she absently held tighter to his hand.

"I've kept a few secrets of my own I guess."

John returned the pressure to her hand and she looked up at him through teary eyes.

"Mary, you are, and will always be, one of my closest friends. If things were different, I wouldn't hesitate at your offer."

The boy explained softly and brought his free hand up to cup her face. Two tears escaped from between her lashes as she leaned into the touch.

"If things were different, maybe I'd be enough. I guess it's hard to compete with Sherlock Holmes though, huh?"

"Mary-"

"Don't. Just…let's forget this ok? It's just a silly crush, I'll get over it. John just…I'm here, if you need me, if you ever need a friend. Honestly I…I hope I'm wrong, I hope you two are happy together for a long time, I really do."

"I know Mary, I know."

John leaned forward to place a chaste kiss on the girl's forehead before the two straightened up and went back into the dining room.

* * *

John entered the flat precisely three hours after the detective did. Sherlock first observed that John looked happy, which he quickly decided was very good. He'd been afraid about how the meeting would go in regards to his absence, if it would make the boy angrier. He was glad to see it hadn't ruined his evening. The second thing he noticed was John had several bags in his hands.

"What are those?"

He questioned from the sofa. John smiled at him quickly before dumping the bags onto the arm chair with a huff.

"Gifts, from William."

He answered simply pulling out a set of kitchen knives as an example.

"It's like he thinks we're married already. I swear, he wants us together more than we do."

He continued and placed himself on the sofa next to the man.

"How did your case go?"

John asked curiously as he placed a hand on the detective's knee.

"Fine it went…fine. Lestrade was in a mood…I don't think we'll be taking cases from him for a while."

Sherlock answered quietly, not wanting to show the absolute hate he felt at the moment. The anger and the sorrow towards his friend. The last thing he could do was tell John, it wasn't something he would benefit from hearing.

"What? Why? What happened; is everything alright?"  
John questioned with a bit of panic.

"Everything is perfectly alright John, now that you're here."

He replied and moved his hand over the boy's.

"Nothing to worry yourself over, we just had a bit of a row is all."

Sherlock finished and that sat their silently for a while, just letting the feel of each other's hand seep in.

"You were missed at the party you know…people wanted to see you, I…I kind of wanted to see you there."

John said softly. Sherlock looked towards the boy and gave a weak smile.

"I'm sorry; it was a truly important matter. I hope the experience wasn't too dreadful, I know you were nervous."

Sherlock apologized and offered a firm squeeze to John's hand. He really hadn't wanted to make John do that on his own, but it was for the best.

"I was, but for no reason apparently. They all already knew, everyone was ok with it too."

John said with a smile.

"I'm glad."

Sherlock responded and then leaned in slowly to brush his lush lips against thin ones. John reciprocated immediately with slow languid movements. The detective moved his free hand to cradle the back of John's neck to get a better angle and John moved his to Sherlock's cheek. It was careful and loving and just what the brunette needed. He ached for John's embrace and his body nearly shook with the need to be enveloped in those tanned arms. After a few minutes though the kissing slowed and soon became nothing more than chaste pecks. Then John moved back to look Sherlock in the eye.

"One more left."

He said quietly and then placed once last kiss on the detective's lips.

"Yes, one more and then we are done."


	4. Chapter 4

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 4**

**Sorry this took so long! I injured my finger and it sort of interfered with typing : ( **

"You're amazing, John! Fantastic! Brilliant!"

"Sherlock? Oh god! Sherlock what are you-"

"Hnng! Oh, yes, everything about you is perfect! Have I told you that? How simply perfect you are?"

"I-I what? What are you do-your tongue is!-Sherlock! Stop, tell me what's going on."

"I thought that was obvious, hmmm, oh you feel divine."

John probably considered his current position the most important one of the night or, at the very least the most entertaining. He'd be wrong though, and if he was allowed to continue on with this story line you as the audience would be sorely lacking. For if this story is going to be told properly, it's going to have to explain just how these two got where they are right now (and on a grander scale where they wouldn't be in a few years). So (if you'll excuse the previous interruption) this particular story really started a few hours earlier at an extremely posh restaurant in London city.

* * *

It started with the pricey hair cuts; he would have never spent so much money on some patch of hair sprouting off the top of his skull! Then with John feeling far too odd in such an expensive outfit (he didn't know how bad it was exactly, Sherlock wouldn't tell him after they'd tried to shop together) that Sherlock had bought him. And finally with them arriving at their desired location which just so happened to be the most posh place the boy had ever been in. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the blonde who was now gaping at the high arching ceiling and large crystal chandeliers.

"Come along John."

He called out when the hostess began leading them through the restaurant. The boy followed close so as to not get left behind, he was certain if he lost sight of the detective he wouldn't be able to find him. Once they'd made it to a secluded table near the back he could easily recognize Mycroft and his well tailored suit, he looked impeccable as always. John sucked in a breath and observed the far more daunting figure seated next to the man, Mrs. Holmes, mother of both Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes.

"Hello John, Sherlock, how nice to see you both."

John smiled weakly with a light nod in response, he wasn't sure what to say, and his throat felt just as knotted as his stomach.

"Why hello brother, you and mother haven't been waiting long have you?"

Sherlock asked and John nearly passed out with shock. Sherlock Holmes was being polite? No, no if he looked closely enough he could see that bite in his smile and the malicious spark in his eyes. This wasn't friendly conversation, no; this was how a Holmes went to war.

"No, not long at all. Mother and I were just having the most inspired conversation. What was it you were just saying mother?"

Mycroft spoke silkily as he locked eyes with the detective. John just took his seat and prayed that the waiter would be over soon.

"I was saying how lovely it is that after three years I finally get to meet this boy I've heard so much about."

Mrs. Holmes replied evenly and shifted her gaze off the politician and onto the blonde. John did his best not to squirm as her eyes rested on him and hoped that the smile he gave came off as sincere rather than panicked.

"He's not a boy, and we've been busy. As have you I've heard, how is the financial district these days?"

Sherlock said with just a bit too much force to maintain their little illusion.

"My apologies, you're right. John is a young man, a student in fact. What is the focus of your studies again John, it seems to have slipped my mind."

The woman hummed and despite her pleasant appearance Sherlock seemed taken back by the statement.

"Well, I study medicine Ma'am. I plan to make a career of it."

John answered proudly and turned his bright smile towards Sherlock to see if he'd done well. Sherlock offered a very weak smile back that made John wonder if he'd said the right thing.

"Hmm, yes. A doctor, a very respectable career wouldn't you say Mycroft."

She purred and turned to observe her eldest son who wore a similar sly expression to her own.

"Most definitely. Though (if you don't mind me asking) I had thought you'd been entertaining the possibility of a career in the military?"

The politician drawled out with a calculated stare. Sherlock looked as though he were ready to bound across the table and strangle the man; however John took his hand to ensure such an event did not take place. The detective looked shocked for the briefest of moments before he could mask it with a calm smile that was anything but. The boy turned back to Mycroft who was smiling devilishly.

"Yes, I had, however when Sherlock found the pamphlets and decided to set them on fire I decided that it probably wasn't the best of choices."

John explained kindly and received a snort of amusement from Mycroft before his mother joined back in.

"Don't let Sherlock's domineering nature choose your life's work dear. You have many excellent qualities that are desired in boys and soldiers, I'm sure you'd make a perfect addition."

Mrs. Holmes interjected sweetly and before John could make any comment Sherlock was tightening the grip on his hand and very nearly jumping out of his chair.

"I told you before mother he is _not_ a boy."

He practically snarled and John was certain the brunette had given up any pretense of this being an innocent conversation between family.

"Slip of the tongue, dear, you'll have to excuse me."

She replied smoothly with the smallest of smirks. Sherlock leaned back into his chair but did not loosen his grip on the boy's hand. He didn't even move it when their food came (which apparently Mycroft and Mrs. Holmes decided they should order for them) which made consuming his scallops a rather impossible task. The conversation over dinner consisted mainly of the food and the wine, both of which the boy knew little about. Although he had a feeling it wasn't very important, the conversation was practically dripping with subtext and all of it was going right over his head. Once their plates had been cleared away and Mycroft finished a _riveting_ story about some conference in Wales Mrs. Holmes returned her attentions to her youngest.

"Sherlock, we've heard much about Mycroft tonight. How about we hear a bit about you. How is your little detective business going?"

She asked coyly before taking a sip of her wine. Sherlock gave a fake smile and took a sip of his wine as well.

"If you must know mother, it's going quite well. I solved a triple homicide just last week."

He reported stiffly. She gave a tight smile and a quick glace towards Mycroft before continuing.

"Oh, well that's nice. How much did they pay you for that?"

She asked with an air of snootiness John wasn't sure he was comfortable with. Didn't she realize what her son was doing? All the good that came of his 'puzzle solving'. Sherlock straightened himself out so that he could look down on her rather than at eye level (honestly everyone in their family was just too tall).

"Nothing. You know very well I'm not in this line of work for monetary gain."

He retorted shortly earning himself a very large and very fake smile from the woman.

"No, of course not. Though I'm not sure _work_ is the appropriate term for something that provides no means of income."

She answered with an edge of what John could only describe as bitterness. The boy looked over to Sherlock who for all the world was doing a splendid job of pretending to be unaffected by all of this but his eyes told a different story. One of pain and disappointment, one that made John instantaneously very ready to leave. However, while John Watson wasn't one to pick a fight, he certainly wasn't one to run away from one. The whole night had been filled with snide back handed comments that he had no interest in trying to decipher, nor did he think he ever would, but this was something he could very plainly understand. She didn't approve, and that just wouldn't stand.

"Income isn't all that matters; he puts away killers all the time. If it weren't for him we'd have a lot more murderers on out hands. I think that's worth a lot more than a pay check."

John stated with a nod of his head and a quick glance over to Sherlock who looked positively stunned. When he turned back to Mrs. Holmes she was smiling almost warmly, which was a big surprise since John was certain he hadn't seen her smile like that the entire night.

"Very loyal are we?"

She remarked slyly and took another slow sip of wine without breaking eye contact with the now very confused boy. Sherlock squeezed John's hand tighter and sent him a slightly panicked look, one that he chose to ignore.

"Yes. Very much so."

He answered simply without looking away. The woman looked over at the politician with a widening smile.

"I'm glad to hear it, although, is Sherlock really the one to put so much faith in? You know he can be really very selfish."

She continued while returning her gaze to the blonde.

"He's got his flaws like anybody else, but I think that they make him better at what he does, and what does is help people. Not everyone might understand him, or what I see in him, but that doesn't matter so long as he doesn't let it change him. I wouldn't want him any other way, and I don't think anyone else should either."

John explained and directed a tight smile towards Mrs. Holmes who responded with a smile of her own. They didn't stay much longer and Sherlock was very quiet on the way home. John worried that perhaps he'd gone too far, perhaps the detective didn't like the idea of him talking to his mother like that. For whatever reason though, Sherlock didn't say a word, and John grew more and more nervous as they approached the flat. Once home the brunette practically ran up the stairs and John followed behind him almost as fast.

"Sherlock, look, I'm sorry if I upset you talking to your mother like that but-"

And this, my friends, is where the story began. For your sakes though, We'll just do a quick recap, ok? Here it is:

"You're amazing, John! Fantastic! Brilliant!"

"Sherlock? Oh god! Sherlock what are you-"

"Hnng! Oh, yes, everything about you is perfect! Have I told you that? How simply perfect you are?"

"I-I what? What are you do-your tongue is!-Sherlock! Stop, tell me what's going on."

"I thought that was obvious, hmmm, oh you feel divine."

There, now, back on track.

Sherlock's tongue was trailing down John's neck while his nimble fingers did away with suit buttons. The boy struggled hopelessly to stop the over stimulating sensations but the detective made no signs of quitting soon. However John didn't like to be left in the dark, he needed to know why exactly he was earning this attention.

"Sherlock, please, tell me why you're doing this. What's going on?"

The man paused for a moment, his tongue still pressed to the hallow of John throat. Then he placed one final slow kiss to the exposed skin before lifting his head to look the blonde eye to eye.

"No one's ever done that before. Talked to my mom like that…especially not for me."

He admitted quietly and a warm smile spread across John's face. Sherlock had needed someone on his side, for god knows how long, and while the blonde wished it could have been sooner, he was happy it could be him.

"Well, get used to it. Because I don't plan to let anyone ever talk to _you_ that way."

He replied softly and pushed his lips against the detective's tenderly. The kiss was sweet and long and led to a very nice night in a certain detective's bed. If you asked John it was one of the most memorable nights of his life. If you asked Sherlock he would tell you the whole day had been memorable, right down to the toast John had forced down his throat that morning.


	5. Chapter 5

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 5**

**So tired! Sorry it's been taking so long to update, and I promise to edit this soon.**

John hadn't wanted to go to Dublin, he hadn't wanted to be away for an entire week, but his class required that he take notes on this conference if he had any hopes for passing. What he liked even less was that Sherlock rarely left London, and never seemed to leave the country. Which left John alone for a week in Dublin, well…not totally alone, Bill and Mary had been there with him of course. What he meant to say was without Sherlock. Bill had laughed at him joked about how 'pathetic' it was that they couldn't stand to be apart. Mary had admitted that she found it romantic, though John could tell that despite her constant support she still harbored some feelings for him, which was ok he supposed so long as she knew he'd never reciprocate them (though he wished she'd find someone else for her own sake). He had to agree with Bill though, John had never been overly romantic and his own need to be around the detective put him a bit off. It was a fact that he'd spent a good ninety percent of his time with the man since he moved in five years ago; you'd think he could stand a week apart.

Apparently he couldn't, because he took every opportunity to text or call the detective during the trip. Bill had almost laughed out loud when he watched John fidget at the airport for their return trip. John had shut him up with a pointed comment about how obviously Bill didn't understand how great reunion sex was. He was quiet about it the rest of their trip home and Mary blushed deeply any time Sherlock's name was brought up.

When their plane finally arrived in London he breathed a sigh of relief, it wouldn't be long before he'd be home. He could wrap his arms around the detective, hold him close again, and yes, maybe have some fantastic reunion sex. On second though, no, they would definitely have some fantastic reunion sex. They didn't get to have sex as often as he'd liked ever since they started almost a year ago. Sure they'd done other things before hand, and they continued to afterwards (with far more frequency than sex itself he noted bitterly), but there was something about the intimacy and the joining of the two bodies that made the experience that much better. The first time hadn't been like that, no it had been awkward and full confusion (especially considering they had both been new to it), but that's how it was for everyone.

However he soon realized no such sex was happening when Sherlock called him from the taxi to tell him about some case, that he wouldn't even be going to. Great. He gave the new directions to the cabbie and cursed himself for being so hopeful to think he was going home to have sex rather to some crime scene. When he arrived Sherlock texted him to open up skype on his computer and to direct him towards the body. Awesome, so John was just some piece of equipment now. With a heavy sigh he did as he was told and walked towards the hiker who was sprawled out on the grass.

"This is embarrassing."

He mumbled to the computer as he approached the hiker with this new inspector that John hadn't taken the time to learns name. Probably more of a move Sherlock would pull, but the young man was in a poor mood.

"No, don't worry, I'm fine."

The detective replied easily. He thought John was referring to the fact that the man might feel indecent for being in nothing but a bed sheet, which was customary ever since he'd burned his favorite pajama pants during an experiment.

"I didn't mean for you."

The blonde growled quietly so as to not draw attention to himself.

"Get me closer."

Sherlock called out ignoring John entirely. The young man let out a disgruntled huff and moved the screen closer to the body.

"Blunt force trauma to the back of the head, and if you're thinking a gun, there wasn't one."

John explained distantly. Sherlock hummed in response and was silent for a moment as the blonde crouched next to the corpse.

"Take me over to the river bank."

He said at last and John just did as he was told with a light sigh. Once he was finished with that there was the inevitable argument with the man in charge which John always found to be the least tolerable parts when he was upset (on a good day it could be amusing). The young man set to put Sherlock in his place when it seemed someone had walked into their flat. A possible client?

"Sherlock? Who's there?"

Before he could get an answer the screen went black.

"Damn, connection must have cut out."

John cursed quietly and shoved the laptop back into its case. He'd just finished packing the rest of his things in preparation to call a cab when a man just a few years older than himself walked over carrying a mobile.

"It's for you sir."

The red head almost squeaked but when John reached forward for the phone the man pulled away.

"No, that."

He clarified and pointed to a helicopter that was landing in the distance. It took a moment for the statement to register; he was going in a helicopter? Who would order him a helicopter? Well, he had two guesses at that. One, it could be Mycroft being a prat as usual. Or two, it could be Moriarty. Either way he didn't think he had much choice in the matter so he gathered his things and made his way towards the helicopter. He wasn't surprised to find that the people operating the machine gave him no information about where he was going, but they didn't seem like men Moriarty would hire so that was probably a plus. At least Mycroft wouldn't suit him up in semtex.

When he realized they were lowering at Buckingham palace his heart did a little jump. Why were they going there? Of all his years in London he'd never been near the place and now it seemed like he was about to get the royal tour! He was excited but cautiously so, there was that looming question of why. With a great amount of will power John moved through the building quickly without stopping to look at anything. The urge to reach out and grab something was alarming as he made his way back to some overly posh living area. Which is where he found his thirty year old boyfriend sitting in what appeared to be nothing but a white bed sheet. He tried and failed to articulate a question, instead he simply moved his hands up in confusion, to which he received nothing but a shrug. In a few steady movements John came to rest on the sofa next to the man and wondered if his boyfriend was really insane enough to come to Buckingham palace without even a pair of briefs. He gave a quick once over but wasn't entirely sure so of course he had to ask.

"Sherlock…are you wearing any pants?"

"…No."

That was it; he really couldn't contain himself from laughing. Sherlock joined in moments later and it was nice. This was the last place he expected to meet up with the detective after his trip but it was nice. Certainly wasn't sex but…well anyway that wasn't important, he had to keep his mind on what _was_ happening.

"So why are we here, I mean, seriously, Sherlock? _Why_?"

John asked still slightly out of breath from his chuckling and Sherlock shrugged again in response.

"I don't know."

The detective elaborated with a large smile still plastered on his face.

"You think we're here to see the queen?"

John questioned quickly, not sure whether he was being serious or not. Just then Mycroft walked in the door and Sherlock regarded the older man with a sly smirk.

"Apparently so."

He said in a low voice but John was certain by the scowl on the politician's face he had heard. That didn't keep John from laughing however when the detective started up.

"If you two are finished acting like children I've brought Sherlock some clothing to wear."

Mycroft stated with masked anger while holding out the clothes to Sherlock.

"I'd rather not."

Sherlock replied uninterestedly. Mycroft bristled for a moment at his brother's lack of manners before cooling his expression.

"You're working for a _very_ important client Sherlock, I _insist_."

The politician snarled quietly, shoving the clothes at the detective with greater force. Sherlock shirked away from the offending articles with a sneer.

"Who _is_ my client?"

The brunette hissed out as a tall blonde man entered the room.

"Illustrious in the extreme."

Was his smooth reply when he entered the room and gave Mycroft a quick but firm hand shake.

"Good to see you as always Mycroft."

He added before stepping towards John and Sherlock who stood quickly, John out of his need to remain polite at all times, for the life of him he wasn't sure why Sherlock did.

"Good to meet you John, Mycroft tells me good things. Planning a career in the medical field are we?"

He inquired with a quirked brow directed at the young man with an outstretched hand. John shook it solidly before taking a step back to stand up a bit straighter.

"You are correct. I'm almost done with my third year in university; after I'm done there I've just got three years of medical training before I can go job hunting."

John answered confidently which made the man smile before he turned his attentions towards the detective.

"Now…you seemed taller in the papers."

He noted blandly withdrawing his hand when he observed the way the sheet hung.

"I have the advantage of a long coat and a short friend.

Sherlock replied shortly and John bristled fractionally at the statement. It was true he wasn't very tall, but he didn't need it pointed out to him all the time.

"Now, you didn't call me over here for idle chit-chat, so who is my client?"

The detective asked hastily so that no one could interject with any other small talk. The tall blonde man looked slightly put out and shared a withering glance with Mycroft.

"My employer wishes to remain anonyms at this point."

The man explained tight lipped, which was apparently the last thing Sherlock wanted to hear.

"I only like mystery on one end of my case thanks, both ends is just too much. Good day."

The detective drawled out and began walking out of the room. In one quick motion that John had almost missed the politician set down his foot on the edge of Sherlock's sheet. The rest of the conversation was admittedly lost on John as he spent the rest of it transfixed on that pale expanse of back. They were talking about some woman or another and John couldn't be bothered to care, he was far more interested in the body next to him that had been recently clothed. He longed to reach out and touch it and could think of nothing else. He decided very quickly this case could very well be his last.


	6. Chapter 6

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 6**

**Sorry for last chapter, it sort of sucked balls…and not in a good way. My life has gotten pretty insane for a lot of reasons so I apologize if these chapters don't seem as good or take longer for me to post, but I will try to improve.**

John had been unusually quiet on the ride over to 'the woman's' house and it worried the detective a little. However it only took one deductive glance to know the blonde was simply disgruntled by his obvious sexual frustration. Sherlock smirked at the thought of John being so desperate and allowed himself to fantasize for just a moment on just _how _desperate that was. A few years ago he might have put the entire investigation on hold if he so much as thought John wanted a peck on the cheek, however they'd been together for about two years now and the cases took precedence. That didn't mean he didn't take the occasional break for John's sake (and ok, sometimes his own) but it was a bit early in the case and the day to be entertaining John's still very active libido. Which was the one thing Sherlock did confess their age had caused a sort of divide, most would have assumed it was the amount of experience or wisdom, but that was not the case. The detective considered himself far more experienced than most, so John's experience or lack there of was of little consequence. When it came to wisdom on the other hand Sherlock was the one sorely lacking where as John seemed to have it in truck loads. Of course if he'd known the blonde from birth he could have told you that John Watson was that type of person who just seemed to be born knowing how to make his way in the world. So no, in neither of these aspects did Sherlock truly feel their age difference, but sex was another story.

Often times Sherlock found that the young man would be very eager and pressing him to do something, even at the most inopportune of times. Which wasn't that bad, but could he be blamed for wanting to finish an experiment before engaging in another sexual dalliance? He'd gone years doing absolutely nothing, and while he enjoyed that he now no longer had to (because even the great Sherlock Holmes enjoyed a good shagging), he did not need to be satiated every day. One positive was that whenever the detective found himself in the mood John would be ready in a heart beat, even once when he'd been all the way across town he'd made it back in record time, already half hard.

For that reason alone Sherlock was tempted to reach over and kiss the blonde, just so that he might be less upset over having to take a case his first hours back. He knew that would not do though because John wasn't keen to public displays of affection. Which was just as good because while Lestrade had recently begun to warm up to the idea of John and his relationship together it probably wouldn't sit well with the older man to see them snogging. So the detective restrained himself from touching the blonde and settled for explaining that they were going to need to start a tiny fire in order for his plan to work.

* * *

Things were not going so well. Sherlock would normally be the last to say that his plans had failed in any way, but this one was rather obvious. In fact it was rather obvious from the very start of the plan to where he was now that this plan was quite possibly the worst he'd ever thought of. He'd thought of some doozies too, one's that had lead to incarceration and even once a night in a dumpster, but this won out by a long shot. It had all started with the punch to the face. Simple enough it seemed, John was strong and a decent fighter, so it would be convincing. However it had lead to some odd scuffle in which John reminded him that he knew how to take and give punches better than most. So yes, Sherlock admitted that punching your boyfriend who suffered from PTSD do to an abusive father was not the best idea, but it was in the name of the case. Then of course there had been the woman. Irene Adler had of course formulated a plan of her own that involved her own person presenting itself totally nude. Which while an affective way of disarming him was also a fantastic way to piss off his already aggravated boyfriend.

That was just the beginning though, that was just the stuff that he could apologize for quickly and John would forgive him like always. Those were just minor details that could be sorted away. _This_, this was far worse. This was his idiotic miscalculation of the value of Ms. Adler's phone and horrible lack of observation. This was a team of American agents holding a gun to John's head. _His_ John's head. Which of course was because they wanted the phone; that stupid phone his brother should have been able to retrieve himself. Instead here he was watching these men force John onto his knees along with that dreadful woman who had started this whole mess in the first place.

"Now, Mister Holmes, we're going to need you to open that safe."

The eldest and obviously superior officer stated roughly. Sherlock was finding it hard to look the man in the eyes as his gaze seemed to be caught on the gun by John's head.

"I don't know the code."

He said as calmly as possible in response.

"From what I heard she's already told you. I'm not smart enough to have picked it up but I'm betting you are."

The man replied harshly and Sherlock could feel his heart begin to race faster.

"She knows the code why don't you ask _her_?"

John spit out and motioned towards Irene with a jerky head movement.

"Because she also knows the code that calls the police. Now this is the last time I'll ask nicely, open the safe."  
The American snarled and Sherlock did his best not to visibly flinch. His concern for John's safety was doubling with every passing second and he could feel his body panicking.

"He's telling the truth he doesn't-"

"You shut your mouth! One more word out of you and they'll be cleaning your brain up off the floor."

The man yelled out as Irene tried to explain. The detective cursed the woman despite her efforts, it was her fault they were here, and it was her fault John had a gun to his head. If she got out of this alive he was certain he would do whatever it took to take her down himself.

"I don't know the code, she didn't tell it to me."

Sherlock reiterated hoping beyond hope that they would just believe him and let him take John home where he could kiss him and hold him for the rest of the night. They'd have as much sex as John wanted too if the man would just let them go, or at least just let John go. John didn't have to be here, he didn't need a gun pointed at his precious head.

"On the count of three shoot Mr. Watson."

"I don't know the code! Don't you understand!"

"Mmm, hmm, and I'm prepared to believe you in a moment."

The older man ordered and the man behind John clicked the safety off of his gun. The young man visibly tensed and let out a quiet noise out of shock. Sherlock froze for a moment. He stared at the man in front of him, this horrible monster of a man who dared threaten John,_ his_ John. He would have felt furious if he hadn't felt so terribly panicked and terrified. These men didn't care, they wouldn't bat and eye at the loss of one perfectly innocent young man. Sherlock would die though, he knew it, he could feel it in his heart at all times, but most especially now. Now that these people thought they could waltz in here and kill the one thing that the detective loved. John looked so brave and Sherlock wished he looked half as much, he was certain fear was painted plainly on his face. His heart was racing out of control, his palms were sweating, his eyes were open wide, and he was sure he was shaking.

"One."

Sherlock looked to John again and observed that the blonde was worried but not overly so. He expected Sherlock to figure this out. There was so much trust there and the detective could feel himself growing more and more afraid at the thought that he might let John down.

"Two."

Damn it all! Sherlock looked around the room, made eye contact with that moronic woman, and berated himself internally. What was the code? He didn't know, there were several theories in his head but the more he thought about that bullet going through John's skull the more confusing it all became.

"Three."

"STOP!"

Sherlock shouted with an outstretched arm. He couldn't contain himself and he certainly couldn't let them shoot John. He turned towards the safe slowly as he ran through all the possible scenarios. Based off what he knew of the woman and the marks on the keys there were two that made the most sense. He didn't like the idea of taking a guess when it came to John's life but these Americans weren't giving him much choice. With a great deal of anxiety he pressed the buttons and in a split second of clarity gave Irene another look and made a rather important deduction.

"Vatican Cameots!"

He called out in warning so that John would know to duck. It had related to a case they'd done a while back and Sherlock thanked god that they had because he wouldn't have known what to say otherwise. With one quick movement he swung the door open and dropped down to avoid the impending bullet which hastily leapt forward and into the chest of the man with a gun to John's head. Fitting. Without missing a beat Sherlock incapacitated the lead man while Irene disarmed them man behind herself. Then, so as to make sure the day was not a total waste, he snatched the phone.

It all happened remarkably fast but nothing could have been fast enough for the detective. The brunette moved rapidly towards the young man and began running his hands over every part of him. John seemed a bit dazed but wasn't injured in any way that Sherlock could detect. Irene was moving slowly behind him (thinking she was clever no doubt) as she made her way towards the safe. To say she was displeased probably wasn't explaining things quite properly, but Sherlock didn't care much for what the woman thought. John batted his hands away after a moment and stood up which the detective wasn't sure he liked but he allowed it. Then of course, they had to deal with the woman.

* * *

The rest of that evening was lost to the detective, which was probably in his best interest. Because both John and Lestrade were very coherent and aware of what the man was doing, and it would have haunted Sherlock to the end of his days if he knew exactly was recorded on the inspector's phone, and all the things he did after. It had started with odd ramblings about the case with the boomerang and about Irene Adler (which of course made John grate his teeth). Then Lestrade had filmed the Brunette as he attempted to explain these things and fight off all the paramedics. Once they saw to it that he was in no immediate danger they put him in John's care. Seeing as Sherlock was a grown man Lestrade was needed to help John haul him up into his bedroom. The whole while Sherlock explained random facts about John that even the blonde did not know himself. Some of which were more than bordering on inappropriate and had led to a rather uncomfortable conversation between the inspector and the young man, one the detective would pay for later.

Once Lestrade had left John made himself a cup of tea and was determined to drink it. He had got off a bloody plane, then to a crime scene where he was forced to do Sherlock's dirty work, then to a Buckingham palace where his sexual appetite reached its peak for the week, then had a gun put to his head, and finally had to carry his drugged boyfriend home. So, John determined that he had earned himself a cup of tea. However the rather loud moan that emanated from the detective's bedroom just as the blonde sat down put an end to that pleasant dream. For a moment John considered just ignoring it, just enjoy his tea as planned, but he knew that would never happen. He probably wouldn't have let his worst enemy lay in agony, so letting his boyfriend be even slightly uncomfortable. With a light sigh he set down his tea and made his way back to Sherlock's room.

"You ok in-"

John began to ask when he realized the detective was standing in the middle of the room stripping out of his pants.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

He asked with a hint of a laugh. The brunette looked a bit ridiculous tangled up in his pants with his cock bobbing about. Sherlock looked surprised but glad to see the young man and stumbled towards him.

"You wanted to have sex, us to have sex when you got home, then the gun, I wanted, I'm sorry."

Sherlock stammered out as he got slowly closer with his pants pooled around his ankles. John smiled warmly at his delirious boy friend, it was sort of sweet to here him ramble on about trying to do something nice for John. It certainly wasn't something he'd here often. As adorable as it was though, there was no way he'd be having sex with the man in this state.

"That's very nice of you Sherlock, but perhaps you should get some sleep first."

He mentioned softly and gently led the detective over to his bed. He sat him down with a soft thump and began to lean him back onto his pillows, hoping that the drug would at least aide in keeping Sherlock asleep. Unfortunately what it didn't seem to do was impede his strength as with such an unexpected force the detective grabbed the blonde and pulled him down with a loud thud.

"Sherlock!"

John shouted out of shock. The detective seemed to ignore him however and simply began to place sloppy kisses along the young man's neck.

"You're nice, I love you, you taste like tea and sunshine."

Sherlock giggled as he began licking John's jaw. The blonde pushed up from the bed and out of the detective's grip.

"You're a bit out of sorts love, maybe later ok?"

He said a bit breathily. As much as he'd wanted to have sex earlier, having it with someone who was half out of their mind wasn't really his cup of tea. After a moment of catching his breath he decided to retreat down to his now cold mug.

"Wait!"

Sherlock called out a bit panicked and it made John pause. He turned back to see the detective holding out a shaking hand towards him and was biting his bottom lip. God, he looked younger than John sometimes.

"What do you need?"

He asked softly and moved closer to the bed, but not close enough to be snatched up again.

"I…could you stay here? Just so-so I know you're safe?"

He mumbled reluctantly and tucked his head underneath his pillow. John let out a small huff of amusement before placing himself on the bed. He hoped this wasn't just some ploy, but Sherlock seemed genuine, and the young man had to admit he was a bit tired.

"Of course dear."

John whispered as he curled around the detective and the man let out a soft sigh.

"Good John, very good."


	7. Chapter 7

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 7**

"Wait, wait, wait…What?"

"Yeah, hold on, you're going a bit fast."

"Plus I didn't even know you guys had even been on a case."

"I didn't see it on the blog."

"Why don't you just start back up from the beginning, slowly this time?"

John let out a deep sigh, Mary and Bill were his closest friends in the world but sometimes he wished they were more like Sherlock. He hated having to explain things with so much detail.

"Ok, so we woke up the next morning and he had slept off the drug, you with me so far?"

He asked trying to mask his own annoyance. The two nodded along and Bill leaned forward to take a sip of his beer.

"Any way, so then I start hearing this noise…"

/

"_Ah_."

John looked up from his breakfast and almost dropped the piece of toast in his hand. The first time he'd figured he'd just been hearing things, but the second time was loud and clear. Sherlock was checking his phone and it most certainly was the originator of the offending sound.

"What's that?"

He asked trying to feign innocence as the detective tucked the phone away in his robe pocket.

"A text."

The man replied quickly and went back to reading the morning paper. John painted a fake smile on his face before biting into his toast with a bit more force than necessary. Then it happened again and the young man couldn't help but throw the innocent piece of toast down onto his plate with a clank.

"Really Sherlock. What is _that_?"

He grated out with the express purpose of trying not to sound as though he were ready to set the phone on fire.

"A text alert John; really, do try to keep up."

Sherlock drawled out steadily without even lowering the paper. John nodded along for a moment and then got up from the table to toss his toast in the trash.

"Why's it sound like that then? It's certainly_ new_."

John spit out more harshly than he'd been managing as he put his plate in the sink.

"Someone got a hold of it and programmed it in my phone."

The detective explained calmly. John could have strangled the man right then.

"Well, how could that of happened? Because it would have been in your jacket wouldn't it have?"

He asked almost rhetorically since he really already knew the answer. Sherlock didn't say anything but it might have been the most telling thing that morning.

"I'm going out."

John snarled before gathering his coat and bolting out the door.

/

"Wait…so you're angry 'cos some bird hacked his phone?"

Bill asked confusedly after a long drink from his quickly draining beer. Mary rolled her eyes at the spiky haired brunette as she finished off her own fruity beverage.

"I doubt it's as simple as that Bill, let the man explain."

She said plainly and motioned for John to continue speaking.

"It's not; nothing is ever simple with Sherlock. He could have changed it, or if he couldn't have, he should have been pissed about it. I changed the background image on it once and he threw a fit. This got nothing. He might as well have screamed that he fancied the girl in my face. It was utterly humiliating to here that woman's sigh all the time. Announcing her presence in his mind. Makes me sick to think about it."

John admitted and finished off the last of his own beer.

"I thought he was gay? Now he's into some dominatrix lady?"

Bill questioned dumbly as he pushed his empty bottle aside.

"I don't think sexuality is that concrete all the time Bill, though I'm not so certain the whole phone thing means he likes her. Maybe you're just reading too far into it. I mean, you hang out with Bill and I and that doesn't mean you fancy us."

She explained with a bit of a pained smile.

"Well…that's not the whole story. It's only the beginning, and to be fair, Sherlock doesn't really have any friends but me. So it was nerve wracking."

John said a bit defensively.

"Look, I'm going to get us some more drinks, I'll be back in a minute."

Bill announced as he made his way over to the bar. Mary watched John with sad eyes and reached forward to wrap one of her small hands around his.

"He doesn't always get it, but he cares you know. I do too. We're just trying to wrap our heads around this. Not all of us are exposed to a mad genius everyday."

Mary said sweetly and then leaned back into her seat.

"Yeah, I know…to be honest I'm just as confused as you guys sometimes. And I do appreciate this, I really do, I have to talk to someone about all this or I'll go insane. I'm not allowed to post on the blog for like another month."

John sighed and gave Mary's hand a light squeeze before pulling his hand back. After a quiet moment Bill returned with an armful of drinks and a cheerful grin.

"Alright, so the phone had some moaning from that sex lady. Then what happened?"

/

The party hadn't been going well, but John would be lying if he said it was a surprise. Of course it wasn't going well, when did anything ever go well at 221b? Sherlock had managed to offend everyone in the room in record time while still maintaining his own sense of accomplishment. Though he did seem upset that he'd hurt Molly. Who obviously then thought it necessary to apologize to John for her 'obvious' crush on Sherlock. Though John knew she still harbored feelings for the man he'd hardly thought she'd been flaunting it. Then Sherlock got another one of those ghastly texts. Right there during the party. John almost screamed. Then the detective went rushing out of the house without a word as to why or where. The blonde was left to excuse the guests and clean up, however Mrs. Hudson remained to help.

"I'm sure he doesn't mean anything by it dear, he never does."

She said softly as she wiped down the coffee table.

"I wish…Oh, I wish I could believe that. But you know he'd never been with anyone before me, never taken an interest in people and now he's texting _her _all the bloody time!"

John huffed out frustrated and slammed the dish washer shut a bit too forcefully. The older woman frowned at the machines maltreatment but said nothing about it as she deposited her cleaning rag on the kitchen counter.

"John, he's a complicated man, I don't think I'll ever understand him fully. One thing I can say though is that he loves you; I've known that from the start. So I'm sure this woman is no more than a puzzle to be solved like one of his cases. Can't say I approve of the way he's going about things, but then again, I rarely do."

She said with a warm smile and brought John close for a hug. John leaned into the embrace and let the warmth flow through him. He'd needed someone to say that for quite some time. Just as he was about to say so his mobile began to chime.

"Well who could that be at this hour."

Mrs. Hudson chided as she pulled away from the young man. John answered the phone quickly thinking it might be Sherlock with some odd explanation.

"John."

A low authoritative voice called out and John sighed. It was the voice of the well known politician more than likely bringing more bad news.

"What did he do?"

John asked in a wary voice, despite how angry he might be, there was no way he wouldn't be helping his detective out of yet another jam.

"Nothing, yet. He's on his way home. I'm afraid…it's another danger night John, you'll have to keep an eye on him."

Mycroft informed with an air of apology that always seemed present on nights like this. The young man let out another sigh and brought up his free hand to message the knot forming in his brow.

"Just…tell me Mycroft, be honest. Was it because of _her_?"

He questioned with an equally tight knot forming at the pit of his stomach. There was a pause on the other end of the phone that felt like an eternity and did nothing to quell his fears, if anything they grew tenfold.

"Yes, John, but please you mustn't-"

"It's fine. I don't need to hear it, just make sure he comes back here, Mrs. Hudson and I will search the flat just to be safe."

John interrupted the man with a note of finality before hanging up. He quickly tossed his phone onto the table and looked up at his landlady with big eyes that he would have sworn had just broken her heart by the look she gave him. He didn't want pity though; he just wanted Sherlock to come to his bloody senses. The two of them searched the flat inside and out. John took special care to destroy the sock index out of spite as he moved through their room. Mrs. Hudson made tiny 'oh dears' as she shifted through the fridge. John flipped over magazines and old experiments while the older woman carefully sorted through the books. In the end they found one old needle but nothing of sustenance so Mrs. Hudson retreated back to her flat for the night. The young man considered sleeping, or watching some late night teley, or even reading a book, but nothing seemed appealing. In the end he settled for dejectedly picking up the mess he'd made searching, he even reorganized the sock index. By the time he finished a very familiar set of foot steps made their way up the stairs. John sat in his chair and waited as the man entered and deposited his coat and scarf.

"I see Mycroft called."

Sherlock said quietly but with an edge to it that made John want to tear his own eyes out. When the blonde went to speak he found that his throat had gone impossibly tight, the size of a pin. His whole world seemed to be crashing around him, or at least that's how it felt.

"Are you coming to bed?"

The man asked stiffly when he received no response and god help him John couldn't answer if he wanted to. The blonde simply continued to stare off into the living room, being careful to hide his watering eyes from the detective.

"I see."

Sherlock sniffed and made his way towards the bedroom which he entered quickly and just as rapidly slammed the door behind himself. John slumped forward into his hands and cried for the first time in years.

/

"Guess that explains why you showed up alone to my house the next day for my dad's party."

Bill said quietly when John lapsed into silence once again.

"Maybe…well did you talk to him about it later? It's important to be open in a relationship."

Mary added gently as she took a hold of John's hand once again.

"What, no! Blokes don't do that shit Mary; they don't talk like a couple of girls, even if they are fucking each other. Men don't work like that."

Bill snorted and took another drink of his beer. If looks could kill the brunette would have keeled over on the spot when the young lady turned to glare at him.

"What about your dads? Don't they talk?"

She snapped and gripped onto John's hand tighter.

"Well yeah. But my dad isn't a bloke, he's an actor. Totally different species, he talks about everything he can."

Bill dismissed and went back to paying attention to his beer. Mary rolled her eyes before resting them back on the blonde in front of her.

"He's an idiot-"

"Hey!"

"Don't listen to him; couples need to talk through their issues no matter what their genders."

She explained softly and gave his hand another squeeze.

"Yeah well…neither of us are really the talking type Mary. Besides, there's still more to the story."

/

John had been sure it was Mycroft, so sure. This would be the second time he took a ride from someone assuming they were under the politician's employment and been wrong. He wasn't sure whether this was better than the last however. In fact, he was almost certain he'd rather be facing down a poisonous pill than the very woman who had been ripping him apart. Her mere existence excited the detective and it made John want to just scream. It had always been him at the center of the man's attention, despite all of Sherlock's flaws, despite all the shit he put John through John was always the only one that mattered. Now, now there was this woman, and she was consuming him entirely and when she was done the blonde was sure there would be nothing left for him.

So now here he was, in an abandoned warehouse, standing right in front of her. He supposed he should be shocked she was alive, but honestly it didn't faze him one bit. It was just the audacity of it. That she'd tricked Sherlock Holmes, that she'd caused so much pain and didn't have the courtesy to be dead. If he were a weaker man he'd have run up and slapped her, but that wasn't who he was, he wasn't his father. No, John was better than that, he was better than _this_. All he wanted to do was end this whole thing, just be done with it. So he clenched his fists and shifted the weight on his feet as he tried to get a hold of himself.

"You're alive."

He stated blandly, not sure what else to say at the moment but not liking the continued silence.

"Appears so."

She answered coyly as she typed something into her phone. John could admit that the woman got under his skin, everything she said felt like a knife pressing on his patience and it drove him insane. Because she was so smart, and so clever, and so much more so than John could ever be, and he knew that's what it was all about. Sherlock wanted someone to match his intelligence, a challenge; John could never offer him that. He'd thought his love and loyalty could be enough, and it seemed enough, until _she_ showed up. She was better and he knew it, and that's what hurt the most.

"Tell him."

He uttered quietly, almost too quietly for the woman to hear. It killed him to say it, to admit that he thought so, but he knew it was the truth. No matter how much it hurt him he knew that Sherlock cared about this woman, and he was in pain which meant John really didn't have choice any way. He could never let the detective be in pain just for his own sake.

"Sorry. Can't."

She replied shortly and John could feel his lip twitch. Wasn't it bad enough that she'd taken the detective? Did she really have to destroy him too?

"Why's that?"

He almost snarled and she smiled back knowingly.

"Well then why'd you call me here? I don't even like you, at least he'd care."

The blonde snapped at the woman with a bit more ferocity than before. Her smile only spread and for a moment they just stood there like that, him glaring and her smiling.

"I need you to do me a favor."

She said smoothly and John snorted out disdainfully in response. Who the fuck did this woman think she was? Did she even realize what she was to John?

"I just need you to get my phone back. I thought it was a good idea to give it to Sherlock but I was wrong. Now I need it back."

She explained calmly and John really wished he was a lesser man for a moment because he was so sure that he'd feel a million times better if he could smack that smug look off of her face.

"Why don't you tell him you're alive and get your own bleedin phone back! Or I can tell him you're alive and still not get your phone for you."

He almost yelled and she faltered for the briefest of seconds before becoming the picture of confidence.

"Fine."

Was her simple response and she picked up her phone once again and began typing.

"I'm not dead, let's have dinner."

She read aloud and John could have collapsed right there. She'd been flirting with him, this whole time, right under his nose. He felt like the world's biggest joke had been pulled on him and everyone was laughing. Of course she'd been flirting with Sherlock, that's what she did. John had just been too stupid to realize it. He knew he should be angry, more than anything he should be angry at Sherlock, but he wasn't, he just felt hurt. It felt as though something had broken off inside himself and was lodged in his heart.

"There."

She announced clearing the young man's mind. His eyes snapped to her's as she pressed the send button and it felt like she was twisting a knife in his gut. Here she was flirting with his boyfriend, and right in front of him. Then, if only to make matters worse, he heard Sherlock's mobile sound off in the hall.

/

"John."

Mary breathed out in quieted horror.

"That bloody sucks! Did you say something?"

Bill shouted earning them a look from the bartender. John slumped forward a bit and just shook his head.

"No…I know I should have but…what could I say? It's not really cheating, he never texted back. Besides there's a chance he didn't even notice. It took him forever to catch onto Molly. Plus…I guess I'm a little afraid of what he might say if I ever said any thing."

John admitted before taking a large gulp of his beer.

"You can't mean you still haven't said anything!"

Mary gasped making John flinch.

"No…not yet."

The blonde sighed and Mary shared a look with Bill before they turned their attention back onto him.

"Mate, you can't let something that big just go. Please tell me he at least did something, what happened next with this case?"  
Bill prodded and John wasn't sure he really wanted to continue any more.

"Well next was the ordeal with Mrs. Hudson…but I sort of already told you the gist of that one."

He explained quietly, certain the conversation was draining him.

"Alright well what about after that?"

Mary asked carefully and John hated that he seemed so helpless. Just then as if by some divine intervention his phone buzzed and he looked down to see it was Sherlock. He was texting him about some new case. Not exactly what he wanted right now but it would do as an excuse to end the conversation early.

"Sorry I've got to go, seems there's a new case."

John reported and finished the last of his beer.

"You can't be serious! You're just going to go off on another case without even sorting any of this out? You could at least explain the rest to us."

Mary protested but John simply shook his head as he set some money down on the table.

"Another time maybe, and we'll sort it out I'm sure."

He said with a reassuring smile he wasn't sure they bought but he left it at that and made his way back towards the flat.


	8. Chapter 8

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 8**

**So I edited the last chapter and…I said 'fun' instead of 'phone' at one point and I just…I don't even know why guys. I apologize and hope that you weren't laughing as hard at me as I was at myself. God, my mistakes are so embarrassing. **

Things were not right. No, and they hadn't been for months. Not since John had returned from Ireland and it was driving him mad. Sherlock was certain it had to do with that, it just had to do with the trip. The detective hadn't gone with him and what a mistake that had been because clearly that was the only time he hadn't been able to observe the blonde and now something had changed. It was as though they were living in paradise one moment and on the brink of destruction the next.

He had desperately wanted to figure out the reason for this change the moment he'd noticed it. However the detective had found himself wrapped up in yet another case that had required his full attention. Of course it had, it always does. Sherlock always went all in on his cases, often leaving John far behind (metaphorically speaking though as clearly the young man was always on hand). This time was different though, because something had changed when he'd left for Ireland. Perhaps it was because he really needed the detective there.

Now it was a month after that cursed case and things still weren't right. He tried to lighten the mood around the flat, anything he could think of just to see John smile like he used to, but nothing worked. Despite his own feelings he even recommended a 'Bond night' as they were some of John's favorite films. However the blonde was despondent and would have none of it. Then inspiration struck the night before…or so he thought.

Which is what brought him to where he was, standing outside in the rain praying that he could fix this. He was just praying that he hadn't ruined the one thing in this world that had given him so much joy. The house was large and in all his time of knowing the man he'd only been there once or twice before. He walked up slowly to the door and held out a hesitant hand to knock. The detective was rarely scared but he certainly was now. What if he heard something he didn't like? That was beyond his control? What if he was only here to learn that there was nothing left to do, that he'd already lost? Before he could even think about tucking tail and running the door swung open. Inside was a very confused looking William Murray and his husband.

"Sherlock?"

The actor questioned incredulously and turned back to David as if to ask 'is this really happening'. For a moment Sherlock stayed silent, not sure if this was the best course of action any more.

"Yes, I…"

He lost his voice quite quickly he found as it was becoming increasingly hard to imagine surviving the impending conversation.

"Come inside, before you catch something."

David chided and pulled the detective inside with one firm tug. William made quick work of taking Sherlock's coat and scarf before leading him over to their sitting room.

"I'll get you a cup of tea."

The actor said quickly as he rushed out of the room. David led the man over to the nearest sofa and sat him down.

"John's not here you know."

David informed softly as he sat himself next to the detective.

"Obviously."

Sherlock choked out, he'd meant it to sound more like his usual petulant self, but he supposed that part of him was long gone, for the moment.

"Was there something you needed from us, then?"

David continued on, gently prodding for answers. Sherlock ran a shaky hand through his hair and sucked in a deep breath.

"I was wondering if I could speak to Bill about the trip to Ireland he and John took a few months ago."

He explained quietly and silently hoped that this whole ordeal would be over soon and simultaneously wished he never have to go through with this. David placed a supportive hand on the detective's shoulder to steady him.

"I'm afraid he's out at the moment and shouldn't be back for a few hours…perhaps William and I can help."

The man offered kindly and Sherlock felt sick. Could he really wait another day? No… but how could these two possibly help him?

"Of course we can help! Here, take your tea dear and tell Davey and I what's the matter."

William chirped as he shoved a hot china cup into Sherlock's hands, and sat himself on the near by love seat. The detective took a wary sip of the tea and noted that he much preferred John's, which sent another pang of sorrow through him that was practically crippling.

"Honestly this is a matter I must discuss with Bill. I have to know what happened during their trip to Ireland. Whatever it is has changed John in some manner that is most upsetting."

He went about setting his tea on the coffee table when he noticed the couple exchanged a confused then pained look. Obviously he was missing something here.

"Is there something I should know?"

Sherlock asked carefully as he glanced between the two men who seemed uncertain as to how to answer him.

"Sherlock… why don't you just tell us how exactly he changed?"

David continued simply ignoring the detective's inquiry. Sherlock debated whether or not it was truly necessary to discuss this matter with these men whom he barely knew. He might have been so inclined to leave just then if he hadn't remembered that these had been the very men whom John credited to their eventual couple-hood. So rather than storm out just as lost as before, he decided it might be best to see what advice they had to offer.

"Well, obviously I noticed a change immediately, the very next day in fact, but it wasn't until I found Ms. Adler in my bed that it became painfully clear."

* * *

"John, we have a visitor. You might want to put the kettle on."

Sherlock called out from the bedroom as he looked down at the sleeping woman. He wondered why she had chosen to crawl inside to sleep, had she been deprived thus far? Or perhaps she was simply more ordinary in her biological needs. She had appeared to be much like the detective in many ways, one of which he begrudgingly admitted was his intelligence. The woman was clever, and a survivor, but he felt assured he remained superior. However what made her enticing was not that she may be smarter than himself, but that she offered a challenge. She was a mystery from top to bottom and it excited him. Much like Moriarty had before he strapped a bomb to John's chest, now the man was nothing but a threat. Irene wasn't though, she was simply mystery. She had a mysterious phone, a mysterious past, a mysterious career, and even the woman herself was a mystery. One that wasn't so simple to solve, which is exactly how he liked it.

"What do you mean a visitor? I don't see anyone."

John mumbled as he made his way down the hall. The young man looked tired, as he normally did now, ever since that trip. Sherlock wished John would stop looking so tired, he wanted to research ways to help ease the blonde into more restful sleep, but he was busy. He was constantly working on Irene's phone, or the case, or on what exactly his brother was up to. Now as John stood next to him he saw that perhaps that wasn't the best course of action. He looked warn and exhausted, and if Sherlock hadn't known better he'd say John was ten years older than he was. When the young man peered inside the room it only got worse, his skin paled and his eyes went wide before looking up to the detective's.

"What is she doing here… in our bed?"

John asked in a quiet voice that made Sherlock's chest tighten for some inexplicable reason.

"Well, I'd have to wake her and ask now wouldn't I? I'm not a mind reader you know, though I would assume she means to collect her phone."

The detective reasoned but the pained look on John's face did not go away and so Sherlock began to truly worry as to what was wrong. Just as he began to reach out to comfort the blonde he pulled away.

"Just get her up would you? I'll put the kettle on."

The young man grumbled and made his way down the hall. Sherlock wondered for a moment what it was that had changed, and if John would tell him before this case was over and he had to devote all of his efforts into figuring it out. When he woke the woman she was pleased to see him and even more pleased it seemed with a fresh cup of tea when they entered the living room. Her demeanor changed abruptly however when the matter of her phone was brought up. Then it was all eyes on Irene. He could tell she was good, and that made the game so much sweeter. She took the false phone and for a moment he relished in the feeling of accomplishment until he realized that it was he who had been tricked in the end. Admittedly he was shocked, and he was even more shocked to realize he'd complimented her aloud. John seemed less than pleased to hear that. Then she had challenged him and god how he loved a challenge. He rose to the occasion as usual and that was the last straw apparently. John went ballistic.

"Beg for-that's great, just bloody great!"

He had shouted as he shot up from the table leaving his chair to drop helplessly to the ground.

"John what's the meaning of this?"

Sherlock had asked anxiously, he'd only seen John this mad once or twice, and it had never been directed towards him.

"Why don't you figure it out yourself, your new girlfriend can help you since she's so damn clever."

The young man hollered back and Sherlock visibly flinched when the front door slammed shut behind John.

"Someone's got a bit of a temper."

Irene snickered and the detective's head snapped in her direction almost immediately.

"What's so funny?"

He hissed, not certain whether he was angrier that she'd mocked John, or that she appeared to have figured out what was wrong first. She smiled at him and sat herself on the table in front of him.

"You are."

She said coyly as she trailed her index finger along his jaw line. Sherlock jerked away almost violently from the touch.

"You're going to have to explain that to me."

The detective gritted out between clenched teeth which only seemed to amuse the woman.

"You've got this fantastically brilliant mind, yet you're so spectacularly ignorant about the very people who mean the most to you. It's wonder he's stayed with you this long."

She laughed and the brunette did his best to control the horrible clenching sensation at the pit of his stomach.

"He loves me."

Sherlock stated petulantly, not sure if he was trying to convince her or himself at this point.

"Love is a fickle mistress. She can be here one minute…"

She said lightly as she picked up John's mug off the table.

"And gone the next."

She finished and with that dropped the mug onto the floor with a loud crash to demonstrate her point. Sherlock could feel a deepening pit grow at the center of his gut, her meaning had been all too clear. John was falling out of love? Sherlock had done something to upset John and now the blonde was questioning his feelings? The detective wondered about how badly John might have wanted him to attend that trip, or if someone had said something to change his mind. His mind was reeling and there for it took him a moment to realize the woman's hand wandering down his chest. He slapped it away immediately and looked up to see her laughing eyes.

"I think you should leave."

He stated roughly as he stood from his seat.

"Oh, I've upset you now have I? Well, I'd thought myself doing you a favor. You being in denial and all, he wouldn't be looking into military recruitment against your wishes if everything was all sunshine and rainbows."

Irene explained in mock hurt. Sherlock let her words sink in and momentarily questioned whether or not she would lie about something like that. However he knew she was smart enough to realize how quickly he could disprove such a statement and judging by the way she was looking at him she had thought he already knew.

"Didn't you know?"

She asked with growing excitement.

"You didn't, did you? Oh this is rich! I suppose he doesn't know either, does he? Just why you can't let him go… well despite your obvious control issues."

She continued with a gleam in her eye that irritated the detective to no end. He turned away from her angrily and crossed his arms.

"I have no control issues and the only reason I disagree is because of the obvious risks involved."

He declared hotly and decided to omit the other reason being that he couldn't stand for them to be apart for that amount of time. She walked over to his side and gently rubbed the pads of her fingers from shoulder to shoulder until Sherlock moved away from the touch.

"Don't play coy dear, he would be going in as a doctor, they don't go to the front lines. You're not worried about enemies of the army, but those of the Holmes family. How long do you think it would take for information like that to spread? How many well placed phone calls until the wrong people were informed? They might take out a little act of vengeance on the poor lad, no one would question it. Bet he'd get to be buried with the flag anyway though."

Irene purred in a fashion that made the man's skin crawl and he backed away from her swiftly.

"Leave. _Now_."

He growled out in a manner that put his days as a drug addict to shame. The woman smiled triumphantly but left without another word.

* * *

"After that I finished the case with an unfortunate visit involving my brother and the woman."

Sherlock explained in a haggard voice. The story had left him feeling sick, that woman knew something he didn't and now he had to share that information with more people. What's worse is he knew he'd have to tell the rest, and he wasn't sure how he could do that without breaking down.

"Did you talk to him… at all?"

David asked calmly though he and William had a look of apprehensive doubt. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably under the weight of the question. He knew talking was always considered the _normal_ thing to do, but him and John weren't normal. Besides he'd learned a long time ago that John didn't like being badgered about his feelings, he liked having his space until he was ready to talk on his own terms. So of course he hadn't talked to the blonde, but now that was looking more and more like the wrong choice.

"No… I-we're not good at that."

He confessed bashfully and the two men didn't seem surprised. William straightened himself out before leaning towards the detective with a serious expression.

"Why don't you tell us about last night?"

He asked in a soft but stern voice that threw Sherlock completely off guard. How did William know _anything _about last night? The actor must have picked up on his surprise as he faltered slightly in his strict expression for one of more hesitance.

"I didn't mean to jump into it so quickly but you weren't giving me much to go with there."

He admitted with a small smile.

"Did John talk to you? Did he tell you about last night?"

Sherlock questioned quickly. Had they known all this time and just allowed him to give his information over for no reason at all?

"He didn't tell us anything about last night. It's just we know he organized a meeting with Bill and Mary to get some drinks down at some pub-"

"We're waiting up for him, just in case (he gets a bit carried away sometimes)."

"And we know John isn't the type to open up unless something is _really_ bothering him. That and the fact I know he came here around two in the morning last night, and spent the better part of the day with Mary while Bill was off at work."

David finished smoothly despite William's interruption. Sherlock took a moment to process the information, he certainly didn't like that John had spent the day with a girl after the events that took place the night before, and he liked it even less that John had felt the need to drink. The boy rarely drank given his father and his sister's inclination for the habit, so this pub gathering was a bad sign in itself. The detective gave himself a mental slap and prepared himself for the conversation to come.

"Well you are right, there were… problems last night that are actually what truly confirmed my suspicions that something was wrong…"

"Do tell."

"William."

"Sorry, continue."

* * *

Sherlock had been working several minor cases that John had come along for and none had lifted the blonde's spirits. On that note it had been an entire month so it was high time the detective at least devote one day of complete focus on the task. What had changed? It didn't take long for the detective to realize that something very important had been missing from their daily lives. Sex. John had wanted sex that day when he'd come back, yes? Well if that was so than perhaps he was just angry that he'd never gotten any, Sherlock often missed or even ignored requests because he was on a case, perhaps this was what John was suffering from. Maybe he thought Sherlock cared for the cases more than he did about the young man.

The detective leaped from the sofa immediately to go in search of the young man so that he could fix the problem. Obviously it was a real problem too; John probably needed to be reassured of Sherlock's affections and that was all. Whenever the blonde felt insecure he wouldn't initiate a sexual act, which would explain their longest dry spell in history. So it would have to be the detective who started would it? Fine, not a burden really; especially since despite his complaints he really had grown used to it happening close to everyday.

"John!"

He called out almost merrily. There was no answer but he soon found the young man on their bed listening to music as he read some novel or another. Sherlock slid onto the bed and swiped the two distractions. John rose from his slump quickly and let out a small huff of annoyance.

"I was using those you know."

John complained almost as if to himself.

"You don't need them; you've got something far better now."

Sherlock hummed as he crawled up the bed and pressed a small kiss to the young man's collar bone.

"Sherlock."

The voice was a warning and the detective responded. He raised his head so they were looking each other directly in the eyes and John held his stare very well.

"I'm not in the mood."

The blonde declared and Sherlock did his best not to burst out laughing. John was _always_ in the mood.

"Oh really?"

He questioned in a low seductive voice as he reached forward to cup the front of John's jeans.

"I said no. It's not like you want it from me anyway."

The blonde practically shouted as he swatted Sherlock's hand away. After one stunned moment the detective followed him out towards the front door.

"What on earth are you talking about?"

Sherlock asked helplessly trying to keep John with him, but every time he reached out to him, John would pull away.

"You know damn well what I'm talking about."

John yelled and then stormed out of the flat. Sherlock stood stunned in the doorway. The detective was the one normally performing the dramatics, not John. Sherlock didn't even know what the problem was either. He was even more lost than before.

* * *

William and David exchanged a look before turning to the detective and explaining some very important things. Which then led to the detective falsely informing John of a case. He new the young man would come because by this time he'd be getting uncomfortable with talking about himself. Quickly Sherlock hailed himself a cab to get back to the flat and prayed that David had been right about this.


	9. Chapter 9

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 9**

**Rated MMMMmmmMMMMmm baby. Sort of… well it's less pervy than that I guess but you know, you get the picture, just a warning. Won't tell you how or with who though… no editing either.**

Sherlock watched as John made his approach to the flat. He looked haggard and weighed down by some invisible force. It was a wonder he'd come so easily too, the detective figured given their last encounter the young man would be less inclined to see him. He wasn't complaining of course, just postulating the various possibilities for such a reaction. It could be that John had forgiven him after having some helpful conversation with Bill and Mary. The blonde was taking his time on the stairs and Sherlock could feel his skin itching with anticipation. The conversation to come would likely be less than pleasant, but hopefully productive. As John finally walked into the flat William and David's words hung heavily over his head as he determined his best course of action.

"Sherlock? You said there was a case."

John said skeptically, the young man knew the detective too well. He knew when Sherlock was on or off a case just by the gleam in his eye, so his skepticism was expected.

"I lied."

Sherlock supplied smoothly as he stepped away from the window and towards the blonde.

"I see… so you did that why exactly?"

John asked with a twinge of annoyance, he didn't like to be lied to. Sherlock cast his gaze to the ground momentarily as he gathered his bearings. John was a strong individual and an excellent fighter; he would have to bring his best if he hoped to accomplish anything.

"I needed to talk with you."

Sherlock stated simply and took a calculated step forward. John stepped away the detective noted and frowned at the new data. Obviously this was just as bad if not worse than he'd feared.

"Well I'm here now. Say what you needed to say."

John deadpanned in a manner that cut through Sherlock better than any knife.

"I wanted to speak with you about last night, though I'm sure you could have deduced that yourself."

Sherlock answered with more callousness than he truly felt. He was hurt for a number of reasons and taking it out on the last person he should be. John was upset and it was grating at his nerves. The blonde was normally a source of security but there were times when he was a source of utter confusion, and that was insanely irritating. Sherlock didn't like not knowing what to do and he really didn't like John angry. The unfortunate side effect of this was that he normally took his frustration out on John.

"Yes, luckily I'm not too stupid to have let _that _one slide past me."

John bit out sarcastically causing the detective to cringe. He wasn't doing so well, he needed to think about what David had said and concentrate.

"John, I'm not one for beating around the bush and I don't plan to start now, so I'm just going to come out with it. I didn't have feelings for Ms. Adler."

Sherlock said plainly with a voice that harbored no room for argument, well, for anyone accept one John Watson.

"That's funny, you fooled me. How many times did I hear you playing those insufferable mourning songs after you'd thought she died?"

The blonde snarled and caught the detective off guard. Of course he had mourned!

"Was I supposed to be unaffected John? Be the sociopath everyone thinks me to be? Would you be sad if Mary died?"

Sherlock countered and John looked as though he'd been physically struck.

"I _like_ Mary, I hang out with her, talk with her, get drinks, you were _obsessed_ with that woman! You read all of those texts, you let her flirt with you, and you went all the way to god knows where to rescue her! That's the difference here; I can be friends with Mary and still put you as my top priority."

John shouted as he took a menacing step forward. Sherlock shrinked away from the young man slowly. David's advice was ringing out from the back of his mind with painful clarity. He was loosing John to this miscommunication, and he was only making it worse now by putting his foot in his mouth.

"I wasn't obsessed with her, I… she was a puzzle, she was interesting, she wasn't _you_. I could never like her more than you John."

Sherlock explained quietly and raised his hands up in surrender. John shifted on his feet for a moment while looking everywhere but the detective.

"You can't think that she ever held more importance to me than you do John."

The brunette almost whispered as the intensity of the situation overtook him. Because John still wasn't looking in his eyes and that one fact was enough to tell Sherlock everything he needed to know. He took a few steps closer so that he could reach out to place two fingers under John's chin and gently bring his face up to eye level. John looked so hurt and it made Sherlock want to just break down. How could he have let this get so out of control? How could he have been so blind to the real problem?

"No one will ever be more important to me than you John, no matter how interesting, you will always be the one I want to come home to."

He admitted softly as he closed the distance between them. Neither of them had ever been good at expressing their feelings, but there was no way the detective was going to let that fact pull them apart. He pressed his lips against John's with a tenderness he hoped would convey just how truthful he was being. The kiss would have to say it all, all of the things that he wished he had the strength to say. That John was the only one, that he was always the only one and would always be the only one. The young man was leaning into the kiss now though it was a hesitant pressure that Sherlock longed to remove. He didn't want John hesitant or doubtful; he didn't want him to question his worth. Right now the only thing he could think to do was show him, just take him into his arms and make John see just how important he is, because really words would never be able to cover it. No, not even close. There were no words for how perfect John's mind was, or his cups of tea, or his kind words, his morning rants about milk, his strong hands, and certainly not his perfect lips.

The kiss was slower than most they'd had and as it carried on it slowly built in intensity but remained at a leisurely pace. Sherlock wanted John to feel his love through the careful administrations to those thin lines of plush bliss. They moved together and gradually parted so that the detective could slide his lush tongue inside the young man's mouth. John let out a small sigh at the slide of their tongues against each other and the detective took that as his cue to lead them over to the bedroom. A breathy 'omph' slipped from John's wonderful mouth as he was laid onto the bed and underneath Sherlock who carried on kissing as though nothing had changed. The young man brought to shaking hands up to caress Sherlock's waist as his tongue lapped the inside of the brunette's mouth languidly. The detective sighed lightly as he lowered himself just slightly so that their hips could be brought together and rub against each other erotically.

"You're beautiful."

Sherlock breathed as he began pressing kisses to the blonde's neck. He relished in the salty sweet taste that was so uniquely John. There was a muffled moan that he vaguely registered was his own as his hands began to lift John's jumper up. So began the slow work of unwrapping one another until they were both fantastically naked which never failed to take the brunette's breath away. There was something just so right about their bare bodies flush against each other, feeling every inch of skin pressed together. John's skin was rougher than his own and brushed across him in a way that made his throat go dry and the hair on the back of his neck raise.

"I thought I'd lost you."

John confessed when Sherlock released his mouth once again to nibble on the blonde's earlobe. He lifted his head to look John in he eyes once more before he talked.

"Never John, no matter what happens, you will never loose me. I am yours, of that I am assured."

He declared in a rough whisper before leaning in for another deep kiss. The detective mapped out every inch of the young man's mouth before lowering himself to apply small kisses along his chest and abdomen. John's hand moved tantalizingly along his skin and one nested itself within his curls while slowly messaging his scalp. Sherlock continued moving down the length of John's body until he came upon the blonde's stiffening cock and gave it a gentle caress with his tongue. He'd almost forgotten the immense pleasure he found in the taste and feel of John's manhood between his lips or on his tongue. John let out a wordless cry as the detective continued to brush his lips and tongue along the shaft and occasionally the head of the penis. After a few moments there he lifted himself to look into the half lidded eyes in front of him and reach to the side drawer for his bottle of lubricant. The young man shifted to move to his stomach but Sherlock place a firm hand onto his chest to cease the motion. Carefully the detective positioned a pillow beneath John's hips and then pressed another kiss to his now reddening lips.

Sherlock allowed himself to open John up slowly and tenderly while whispering sweet nothings. It was odd how easily the words came to him when they were like this, exposed and open, rather than clothed and restrained within reality. That's why he needed this though, why _they_ needed it, so they could properly explain what they meant to each other. John was sighing and breathing heavily as Sherlock inserted the third finger, brushing across the prostate every third stroke to ensure the ordeal wouldn't be over too quickly. Once he was satisfied with his loosening he lined himself up with John's opening and made eye contact. The young man was more than ready it seemed as he brought his hands up to cradle the back of Sherlock's neck and bring him down for a kiss. As he was leaned over the head of his prick nestled itself within the blonde's opening providing a spark of desire to flare up inside himself.

John laid back down and Sherlock took that as his invitation to begin pushing inside. Which he did with a slowness that would normally do nothing but serve as a means of torture to his already straining cock, but today it was necessary. He needed to be soft and slow, everything he should be with every aspect of their relationship, yet that just wasn't how he operated. Every inch further was like a heavenly embrace and a portion of him wanted to just thrust in and out of that sweet arse of John's and come with his name on his lips, but that was for another time. Right now John needed love, support, and reassurance. He began to rock his hips rhythmically and building up a steady pace. John was letting out tiny gasps that sounded angelic at the moment and Sherlock wondered if the blonde realized just how mesmerizing that sound was. His own breath hitched as the young man clenched around him and the sensation nearly made him collapse.

"_Nnnng_! Oh, _Sherlock,_ you feel so good inside me. I-I love you."

John rambled as he grew closer to orgasm. Sherlock began moving just a fraction faster and kissed John once more on those sweet lips of his.

"You feel Perfect John-_oh god, yes!-_I wish we could stay like this always. I don't ever want-_oh, oh, uh yeah_-to do this with anyone else."

The detective murmured into John's ear as he felt himself getting closer. The blonde grinded slowly into Sherlock's hips to allow his cock to bury itself as deep as possible filling them both up with a number of wonderful emotions and sensations. John's prick was rubbing between their two bodies when he came, covering them both with his hot seed. The blonde trembled as Sherlock finished himself while licking the substance off of John's chest. Finally the detective came with a shot of the young man's name and the two of them wound up side by side. Sherlock mused that he'd never seen himself as a cuddling man, but then again he'd be willing to change anything about himself just to keep John happy. Though he had to admit he much liked the feel of John's skin against his own.

"You're lucky I was drunk."

John said lightly as he began to drift into sleep. Sherlock lifted his head to place a small kiss on the blonde's forehead before settling back down.

"I'm just lucky you came. I'm surprised you did considering how bad I'd been, or at least how bad David explained it was."

Sherlock explained and it generated a small huff of amusement from the young man that made the detective smile.

"It's ok, no need to explain. We were both pricks ok? Some more than others, let's just let it go. We love each other and that's what matters."  
Sherlock agreed with a kiss to John's neck and a small contented sigh. For now, all they needed was love he thought, he would have plenty of time to fix this. So he settled underneath the covers and pulled John closer.


	10. Chapter 10

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 10**

**Oh yeah, double digits! Hope you guys are liking this story even if I've been slower to update :p Sorry about this one being so late by the way, I got sick! Yuck. Also lazy, my apologies. Not edited yet!**

There were few days in John's life with Sherlock that he felt reminded of his childhood. Even his conversations with his mum (as infrequent as they were) rarely filled him with any memories in particular. Yes, there was that cold and unwelcome feeling of what was lost, what had been taken from him, but those were broad feelings with no specific memory attached. That was all right with him too, because ever since he'd left his childhood home he really hadn't dwelled on any thoughts of the life he had there. Sherlock had made him see a therapist for a time, but even then he rarely felt himself loose himself to any emotion.

However that day hadn't started out looking as though he would be feeling the way he did sitting back in that Inn room. No, it had started with a hidden pack of cigarettes and one overly bored detective. There had been a meeting with that Henry Knight fellow and a row about apologizing to Mrs. Hudson before they left as they packed their bags. Then of course an agonizing train ride in which Sherlock refused to let John get any sleep during. Until finally they were standing in front of that dreadful car and the detective was tossing the keys to said car into his hands disdainfully. John looked down at the offending object with horror and considered almost immediately just throwing it to the ground and walking to the Inn. However it was a long walk and not one Sherlock was likely to take, so instead he settled for packing the bags into the boot of the car along side the detective and then slipping the keys back into the man's hand. He looked confused and mildly annoyed at the reintroduction and tried to shove the keys back to the blonde. John avoided them as though they were toxic and backed away towards the passenger seat.

"John. Take the keys, I don't like to drive and I would like to think."

Sherlock stated irritably as he shook the keys almost violently.

"No thanks. I'd prefer if you drove."

John answered shortly, hoping beyond hope that the detective would just let it be. Obviously that was just a stupid, childish dream.

"You can't be serious, you really expect me to drive? If I wanted to drive I'd own a car, now please stop being ridiculous and take the keys."

Sherlock protested as he shoved the keys back into John's hands. The young man stared down at the keys for moment before sucking in a deep breath.

"I can't."

He explained quietly and silently prayed that they could leave it at that.

"You can't what?"

The detective asked impatiently as he took a step forward so as to hear the young man's no doubt quiet response.

"I can't drive."

John finished with a bit more of an edge to his voice than was maybe necessary. Sherlock just stared at him blankly for a moment, not saying a word.

"You're twenty three… didn't you take lessons once you turned seventeen?"

The brunette questioned hesitantly as he took a step closer.

"Not that I would have had time between holding a job, going to lessons, and running around London with you, but… no. I didn't think it was necessary anyway, we live in the city."

John answered defensively, not sure whether or not the detective noticed the catch in his throat.

"I see, it's going to be one of _those_ things is it? Fine, I'll drive and let you keep your precious secrets."

Sherlock said with a huff as he snatched the keys back. They rode in silence a good half of the way there, the two of them brooding. Well, mostly Sherlock who felt personally vexed with John's lack of communication on things regarding his past. For the most part John was just put off that the detective always had to make such a big deal of it. However, the young man couldn't resist singing along to his favorite song when it came onto the radio channel and his lackluster singing voice was always a sure fire way to put a smile on the brunette's face. The two of them fell back into friendly conversation after that and so as John checked them in he couldn't help the smile on his face. He had to admit that despite the fact they were on a case and that the trip had started out so poorly, he was still excited. The two of them rarely left the flat and they'd never left London before, Sherlock was practically attached to the city. This would be their first sort of summer get away together and the thought made his heart soar.

"Hope the room is ok; we didn't have any doubles left though."

The Inn keeper reported as he handed the room key over to John. The blonde couldn't help but let his face drop at the news, what good was a summer get away if they couldn't even share a bed?

"Don't let that ruin your time here though! There are plenty of other things you boys can get up to. Corey gives an excellent tour of the moors; he's seen the beast up close."

The man continued, obviously picking up on the young man's disappointment.

"I'll have to check it out, thanks."

John said as he put the room key in his pocket. When he did the Inn keeper turned to manage some boxes the blonde caught a glimpse of the few receipts piled on the desk. The one on the top caught his eye in particular as it was for a rather large shipment of meat. Normally that wouldn't be odd; however this was a vegetarian establishment. Quickly he pocketed the receipt in the hopes that it may be a clue. Not that he'd care to mention it to Sherlock just yet; he was really hoping they could at least enjoy the morning. So he bought a pint for Sherlock and a soda for himself and headed over to the table the detective had sat himself at. Which is where he discovered that the man had been setting up a ruse in order to determine some data for the case, though it didn't surprise the blonde in the slightest. He did hope that it would be enough for now as he sipped his soda and had even gotten excited when Sherlock offered they take a walk. That wasn't good at all because it was really a fact finding mission and not a pleasant stroll through the country side. Not to mention a very close call at the Baskervilles military base, all over that stupid rabbit. John didn't complain though, this was the life that he'd signed himself up for. In fact it was the only one he could even imagine himself having, however despite his love for adventure he also enjoyed peaceful days as well. Those were the ones that were hard to come by now, so of course he got moody here or there on a case, but that didn't mean he'd trade it for anything.

As John considered these things Sherlock decided it was time they pay Henry a visit and they strolled through the town. The man's house was large and reminded John of a more rustic version of Bill's parent's house. The detective didn't seem to take much notice as he rushed inside of the building without so much as a 'hello' to the poor lad. John did feel bad for Henry as he observed the bags under his eyes. Clearly the man had been loosing sleep, something he could sympathize with. Even years later he suffered from the occasional nightmare that would leave him awake and scatter brained for hours. It helped to have Sherlock there of course and the young man wondered if maybe all that was needed here was some better meds and a companion. Maybe even a dog… on second thought that probably wasn't the best idea. Cats were nice too he supposed, but then he'd never liked that tabby the neighbors had when he was growing up. He realized soon that he'd been zoning out and tuned himself back in to the conversation the two men were having. Apparently there was some need for a plan, which didn't sound like a bad idea to the blonde. It was rare that he got to know the plan before the fact so he geared himself up for the rare occurrence.

"We'll go out into the woods, and see if it attacks you."

Sherlock stated as though he were stating the simplest thing in the world. John nearly got up and smacked the back of his head.

"What kind of plan is that?"

He countered with mild annoyance, it was bad enough he wasn't going to get to enjoy this 'holiday' without running blindly into the woods looking for some killer dog.

"How else do you expect to find the thing without bait?"

Sherlock retorted with a vague hand motion towards Henry. The man in question became very anxious looking as the detective took up a mischievous grin and John let out a large sigh. There was just no chance of him getting his way.

Soon enough the three of them set out to the moor to find Dewer's Hollow and presumably the hound that was haunting Henry knight. The whole thing felt ridiculous to John as it appeared to him to be a simple open and shut case of childhood trauma manifesting itself in hallucinations. Not that it was a deterrent for Sherlock, no; the detective had it in his mind that there was a case to be solved so they would be there until it was. John had a sneaking suspicion this was going to end with one further traumatized Henry Knight and one very angry detective. He wouldn't complain though, as much as the whole thing annoyed him it was far better than sitting at home just watching crap telly.

The moor was dark and did hold a sense of dangerous yet beautiful. It sort of reminded him of Sherlock in that way, thankfully Sherlock didn't have as many bugs crawling around him though. The blonde was busy taking in the scenery as Henry led the way and so it took a moment for him to realize that the detective had wandered off, no doubt in search of some random clue. He rolled his eyes at the brunette's obvious lack of attention span and noted that the surrounding area was beginning to slop downward.

"Not too far now."

Henry called out nervously as his pace slowed up a bit.

"You think Sherlock is very far behind?"

The man questioned as John caught up to him.

"There's no telling with him, though I'm sure if he thinks this is important he'll be around any moment."

The blonde reassured, though given Sherlock's pension for running off at the brink of crisis he wasn't so sure that was true.

"Hope you're right, because we're here. This is Dewer's Hollow, where it all started."

Henry stated quietly as the two of them came to a stop at the edge of the large dip in the ground. There was a vast amount of fog rolling in and it threatened the young man's ability to see. John made his way down anyway and squinted through the thick mass in vain as he tried to see if the detective was near by. No such luck, the only things he could see were just a few yards in front of him. Henry was making his way to John's side when a low growl began rumbling out. The man beside him began to tremble and the blonde tensed immediately. He couldn't see anything but the noises were getting louder, loud enough that they were even able to drown out Henry's whimpering. There was a rustling in a bush above him and he could feel his body betraying him. After all he'd been through; it seemed some invisible dog wouldn't be something to worry him so greatly. Yet there he was, practically on the verge of tears he was so frightened by the sounds this dog was making. Just a few moments ago he had been certain this dog was nothing more than the imaginings of a trauma victim, and now he was cowering in fear of it. When a pair of bright red eyes appeared through the fog Henry started to shout. John was frozen to the ground and so terrified that he didn't even take note of just how out of character that was. No, at the moment he was far too busy staring down the snout of a sharp toothed hound of enormous proportions.

As the dog made its approach Henry began to cry out louder and with greater urgency while John stood and stared. He wondered if he should run, but it seemed a mute point, the dog was too close and likely ten times faster than he could hope to be. John wasn't the type to cry though, so he wasn't about to join Henry on the ground, which left him with standing. The sounds of something fast coming filled the small gorge and the dog looked up in observation. Whatever it was the beast decided that it wouldn't be sticking around to find out and it clambered back within the woods. That didn't give John any power over his legs it seemed as he still stood perfectly still and stared after the hound with widening eyes. The thing had left, but not his fear, he felt paralyzed and helpless. Two things that bothered him more than anything else. He could feel his blood running cold and the hair on his head standing up, it wasn't a feeling he enjoyed in the slightest. There had been few times he'd felt this scared and they played before his eyes like some cruel horror picture. For a moment he wondered if maybe this was all a dream, he fell asleep in the car on the way over and he was just dreaming, because none of this felt real anymore. John didn't freeze with fear, he fought it, he rose against it. More over, he certainly wasn't the type to think such a thing as a giant dog would be running around in the real world.

After a while he became vaguely aware that there was a pair of hands running along his body, touching his face, arms, and chest. His eyes had been open but unseeing, after a moment the haze of past memories cleared and he could see the figure in front of him. From what he could tell it was none other than Sebastian Wilkes from the 'blind banker' case. Just like that the spell that had been bound to his body broke and he was scrambling backward, not wanting to be touched any further.

"John?"

The man questioned, he seemed concerned. John shook his head in confusion, Wilkes wouldn't be concerned. The man was vile, not only that he was pretty sure Mycroft had him sent away somewhere. So the blonde blinked a few times to clear his vision and suddenly there was Sherlock and everything seemed a lot better.

"John, are you ok, did you get hurt?"

Sherlock asked with poorly masked anxiety. John observed his surroundings for a moment to get a grip on himself. Honestly he wasn't sure if he'd been hurt or not at the moment. Henry was chattering to himself about not being crazy and things about the hound. The fog was gone and from what he could tell he wasn't bleeding from anywhere. There was certainly no hound around and Sebastian Wilkes had indeed disappeared as well. Sherlock was standing hesitantly in front of him with one hand reaching at what seemed it's own accord towards the young man.

"John, please answer me. What happened?"

The detective inquired nervously as he took a cautious step forward.

"I-I'm fine, let's get Henry back home."

John said with a slight catch in his throat that the man either didn't notice or didn't care to mention.

"Ok, we can go."

Sherlock consented quietly as he reached forward to grab hold of John's hand. The blonde flinched away instinctively and quickly took two large steps away from the man. Sherlock looked shocked but mostly worried; the young man barely noticed it as his mind worked over time to process all the emotions flaring up within himself.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't sure of with what or when exactly, but he was certain John and Henry had been drugged. Or at the very least John had been. He'd only left for a moment, just _one_ moment. Then suddenly he can hear Henry wailing about some hound, which is precisely when he hears the supposed creature and then his heart stops. Because he had been certain there was no hound, but there had been large foot prints, and there was all this noise now, and of course there was Henry's screaming. Worst of all though, worse than any fear that he might have been wrong and they were in the woods with some giant hound, was that he couldn't hear John. If there was a beast right at Henry's heels where was John? Why couldn't he hear him shouting for help, or directing Henry to run or jump or do anything? Where was John? Before he knew it he was bounding through the moor at rapid velocity, noting briefly that the next time he finds himself in the woods with John he won't be leaving his side, not for anything. Most especially not for some odd blinking light that might have been Morse code but was far more likely to be any of the ten other possibilities he'd thought of.

When he finally found the pair standing in some large clearing in a gap in the ground he breathed sigh of relief. John was alive, he was standing, and seemed to be breathing, and those were all good things as far as he was concerned. The detective rushed ahead noting briefly that Henry was muttering odd things about a hound to himself but was seemingly unharmed. John was standing so still he almost looked like a statue, and it scared him. He wasn't one to easily admit to fear, but the sight of John so clearly affected made him shiver. The young man's eyes were wide and glazed and appeared to be staring off into the woods. It only took a moment for him to notice the clear signs of shock, fear, and something else. His pupils were dilated and there was a thin film of sweat blanketing his far too pale face. Sherlock starting searching the blonde's body instantly for any outward sign of harm, anything he might have missed in his first glance. Nothing looked injured but after a moment or two John swatted his hands away frantically as he jumped backward.

Something was definitely wrong because if the detective knew one thing it was that John Watson did not crack under pressure, and he was most certainly cracked at the moment. A surge of rage passed through him at the thought of someone drugging John into this state. He wasn't sure what it was yet but it was the only thing that could account for such a reaction. For now he let it go because it wouldn't do John any good to discuss it in the state he was in. They walked Henry back to his house and Sherlock did his best not to snap at the man for how much of an idiot he sounded like, babbling on about being right and seeing the stupid beast. Honestly, it was obvious they had both been drugged and his constant mumblings were distracting him from figuring out just how such a thing could have been accomplished. That and he was trying to keep an eye on John with a side glance.

Once they were finally back at the Inn they retired up to their room for what Sherlock hoped would be the night. He cursed the two small twin sized beds as he made his way into the shower and tried to calculate which angles would provide both comfort and allow them to share the same space. When he emerged from his shower he entered the room only to find that John had left. There was a sudden swell of panic at the thought that John had left while in a drug induced state. He shouldn't have taken a shower, even if he'd stepped in some filthy mud puddle out in the moor, not when John so clearly needed him. Without a second thought he bolted from the room and towards the bar. If the young man had left it was likely to get some food, or if he left the building entirely someone probably saw him. When he reached the bar area he found John seated by the fire place drinking a large pint while he stared into the burning flame.

"John?"

He questioned tentatively as he approached the chair. John was drinking at a steady pace and that alone was enough to unnerve him as it wasn't often the young man drank. There were only a few times he could think of and all except one had been related to something stressful or emotionally unsettling. The young man paid the detective little attention as he continued to empty his pint and stare blankly. Sherlock took it upon himself to place a hand on the blonde's forehead just to check only to have his wrist locked in a vice grip. He looked down at the now practically furious young man who had, just a second ago, looked worlds away.

"Don't touch me."

He hissed and threw the offending hand away. Sherlock observed the boy for a beat and noted that while his pupils had reduced in size by a fraction whatever drug he'd been introduced to was still running through his system.

"Speak to me John; tell me what you're feeling."

Sherlock said calmly as he took the seat adjacent to John. He wanted to know the effects of the drug as much as he wanted to know John's state of mind. Both seemed extremely necessary for him to maintain his sanity.

"I feel fine."

John spit out and took another gulp of his beer. The smell was over powering and the detective could easily deduce that this was no where near the blonde's first drink.

"I hate to point out the obvious but since you are so clearly in need of it I will allow it just this once… you are definitely not fine; just tell me what you are feeling… possibly seeing?"

Sherlock continued, hoping that John would see reason and explain what was wrong so he could help him. That's when the blonde pinned him with the most hateful glare he'd ever seen on his face.

"Well thank you Sherlock, clearly you would know better than me how_ I_ feel. Never mind what I say, no, you're the genius here so obviously my opinion is useless, as usual."

The young man sneered and the detective cringed at the tone in his voice.

"I was merely-"

"I know what you were doing. You were taking all those fancy deductions of yours and deciding you know what's best for me because you know whether or not I've had ketchup with breakfast."

"There's more to it than that and you know it, you're just acting out because of whatever drug it is that's pumping through your system right now."

"Right, because it couldn't be because I've just gotten fed up with your bull shit. You get to treat me like your personal punching bag any time you feel _bored_ but god forbid_ I_ get upset after you scoff at me for not wanting to share a personal _trauma _and then drag me into that monster infested moor! No, obviously there has to be some sort of drug involved, I couldn't possibly want to you to just act like a decent _human being_ for once!"

John shouted as he shot out of his chair and at that point the entire bar was staring at them. For what was probably the first time in his life Sherlock felt extremely self conscious having all of those eyes on him, judging him. Of course John wouldn't normally say anything like that, but that didn't make it any less hurtful. Because everything John was saying whether it was drug induced or not hurt because there was truth in everything he was saying. Now everyone in the bar could hear it too, they all knew how horrible he was with the one person he loved above all others. He felt shame and embarrassment, but mostly he just felt guilty. Guilty that he was such a selfish person and that clearly John had been silently suffering through it because of the man he was.

"John… I'm sorry, please, sit down and we can talk about this."

Sherlock pleaded but the blonde wasn't having it.

"I need some air."

John declared and then proceeded to storm out of the Inn in a huff. Sherlock wasn't sure what the best course of action was in regards to the blonde's emotions, but there was no way he could let him run around out there while he was drugged. The detective raised himself out of the chair and quickly took off after the young man.


	11. Chapter 11

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 11**

**Holy good god. Went back and edited the chapter and those of you who read it before hand and did not vomit I salute you. You might want to go back just for my peace of mind so that you know that I am not in fact suffering from brain damage, only mildly delirious with stomach pain.**

Sherlock hadn't wanted to do it. Of course not, it didn't take the world's only consulting detective to realize that Sherlock Holmes was a possessive man. However it was almost as easy to determine that there was little the man wouldn't do to keep John happy; which was why he knew he had no choice but to inform John that the young therapist Henry was seeing would be at the Inn bar in precisely twenty minutes. John was always a sucker for helping with the case, no matter how black his mood. The blonde had been wandering about the town long enough for Sherlock's taste and he just wanted to get him back indoors. Besides, John was always better at chatting up informants. That was what he told himself anyway as the two of them sat down in the bar and John poured her glass after glass of wine. He hid a few tables away pretending to read a book as the despicable woman continued to flirt. It was a light touch to the hand here, a few batted eyelashes there, and the occasional brush of her foot against his calf. The grip on his book was tight enough that his knuckles were rapidly becoming an alarming shade of white as he fought the urge to jump up and pull John away.

When John gave that smile of his though, that's when the detective truly lost it. The blonde's smiles varied in meaning and intensity and Sherlock knew every one of them by heart. This one in particular was one he'd known to be of fondness. He'd seen it given to people before, Mrs. Hudson for example, even Mycroft on occasion, but it was something of meaning. That was a smile of affection, not something to be doled out to some woman he'd just met. However there was one thing that made Sherlock's 'loosing it' not so typical or predictable. Usually nothing would have stopped the brunette from jumping up and insulting the woman before snatching John away and reminding him who he belonged to.

There was something different about this time though, something profoundly different that Sherlock wouldn't realize until much later in life had altered the course of their lives drastically. Their argument earlier, accompanied with the young man's entire attitude towards the case, were clear indicators of something both terrifying and heartbreaking. John was maturing, growing up. Worse, he was outgrowing Sherlock. When they had met, the boy who moved in with him had come from a small town seeking adventure and romance, and he found it. Now he was rapidly approaching full maturity and ready to start settling down. Soon he would want to start thinking about permanent careers and marriage and children. Sherlock knew he was probably the worst choice a person could make for all three of those; it was only a matter of time before John came to the same conclusion. The detective could see that perfectly now as the blonde reveled in some spectacularly boring conversation, something he probably viewed as a rare treat due to his life with Sherlock.

The brunette wasn't sure how much more he could take of late night revelations. They weren't pleasant in the least, not even his glass of scotch helped. Especially since all he could see were those deep blue eyes that he longed to have look at him for the rest of eternity settled on that plain woman. As they spoke he envisioned that John was no doubt imagining some picket fence life with such a woman, two point five children and some idiotic dog yapping in the background. John would make a great father, Sherlock didn't need to have all those countless experiences of seeing the young man interact with children to know that either. There was just this quality to him, his seemingly endless patience and forgiveness, yet at the same time there was this firmness to him that made him a force to be reckoned with. Yes, but Sherlock Holmes was not the sort of man you wanted helping raise your children.

This discovery of his would have been enough to bring most men to tears; however Sherlock was not most men. Besides, he knew things that most men would be too stupid to have figured out on their own. John was stubborn, he was loving, and he was loyal beyond belief. There was no way he would leave Sherlock over something like children or picket fences. No, he'd give those dreams up in a heart beat to keep the detective by his side and Sherlock knew it. That didn't ease him in the slightest though, it just made it worse. Because it would be him who was holding the blonde back, keeping him from growing into the person he was meant to be. He wasn't sure he could live with knowing that.

* * *

Unfortunately the meeting with the woman served no purpose but to upset Sherlock as the Dr. Franklin he'd met earlier interrupted the conversation quite rudely before any information was obtained. So he had snuck into the room just before John and lay in the bed furthest from the door. The young man didn't turn the light on and he didn't bother to change, just flopped into the bed closest to him and nodded off. Sherlock had to work relatively hard at maintaining his composure as he lay beneath the cold and lonely sheets. The next morning he didn't bother to wake the blonde, it was likely the rest was necessary for letting the drug drain from his system. The detective made his way over to Henry Knight's house in the hopes he could discover the source of the drug. It was most likely that the substance was somewhere in his home, it would explain why he was suffering all these years later, if someone was drugging him for some reason. Then when John and him had gone to visit the blonde must have been exposed some how.

It had to be something the man consumed regularly; it was the only way the perpetrator could ensure his product would be consumed. However it also had to be something that John had that he hadn't. That was proving to be the more difficult thing as they had eaten exactly the same food the entire trip until apparently at Henry's house. Which was why when he reached the man's house, he went straight to the kitchen to trigger his memory of their last visit there. One quick glance around the room was enough to remind him of Henry's proposal for coffee to which the blonde had politely accepted. Sherlock on the other hand had declined because he was mid thought and couldn't be bothered. His face brightened up immediately as he spotted a pot already brewed. The only way to know for sure was if he tested the theory.

"Mind if I take a mug to go? Thanks."

He blurted out quickly to the man as he continued to follow behind dumbly. Sherlock paid him no mind and took one travel mug and filled it with the dark liquid. There were still some variables that needed to be weighed and of course he would have to find a test subject. John wouldn't do because for one he'd already been exposed and he'd also done enough to upset the blonde for one lifetime. Speaking of the rather irritated young man, he was leaning against a large tombstone in the grave yard. Sherlock approached slowly, knowing he'd been spotted so there was no turning back, but not sure whether or not he was welcomed back just yet.

"Sherlock."

John called out hesitantly and straightened himself out to look at the detective at eye level the best he could.

"Yes?"

Sherlock answered after clearing his throat a bit. It felt tight for some reason and he could feel an undeniable urge to run. Because he wasn't sure what to expect here, but if it involved any of those picket fence thoughts he'd clearly been having then the brunette wanted nothing to do with it. He wasn't ready for that yet.

"I wanted to apologize for last night… I know you said something about a drug and I'm sorry but you have to know everything I said was because I was under its influence. Also… I wasn't able to get anything out of the woman."

John reported solemnly and Sherlock couldn't help but smirk. Not only did John not remember that woman's name, but he was seeing logic once more. The detective could work with logic.

"No apologies necessary, I understand completely."

Sherlock assured with a firm pat to John's shoulder which seemed to release a great deal of the young man's stress. With cautious movements he took up the blonde's hand and held it in his own. When he was rewarded with a smile he gave a light squeeze and they walked down towards the Inn hand and hand. Just as they entered the lobby by the bar he spotted Lestrade.

"What the hell are _you_ doing here?"

He questioned angrily. Honestly, he had been hoping to take John upstairs to 'make up' so that he would enjoy the case more but there was no way that could happen with Lestrade hanging around them.

"I'm on holiday if you'll believe it."

Lestrade explained cheerfully to which John gave him a wide smile.

"I don't, you've just gotten back from your holiday! My brother sent you didn't he?"

Sherlock continued and the older man let out a large sigh.

"Not everything I do is on his watch you know, but yes, he did."

Lestrade admitted and picked up his pint off the bar. The detective smirked for a moment at the small victory before barreling ahead.

"Well I'm afraid you've made the trip for nothing, everything is quite under our control."

He affirmed with a stiff nod, John had other ideas though.

"Not necessarily, I found something he might be able to help us with."

The blonde confessed and merely gave an impish smile in response to the glare the brunette couldn't help but unleash.

"Well, let's hear it."


	12. Chapter 12

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 12**

**So sorry this is so late. I've got a lot going on, just…ugh, sorry.**

John was aware that he had been drugged but that didn't make him feel any better about what he had said. Sure Sherlock could be insufferable during a case, but that was just part of who he was. John wasn't in love with the man just for his good sides; he was in love with all of him, even the parts that made him a dick. So while how he'd acted about driving had bothered him, it wasn't like he was crying about it, he knew Sherlock cared it was just in his own way. Which was part of the reason he was so surprised to have Sherlock hand both him and Greg cups of coffee during their interrogation of the couple who owned the Inn. They were confessing to the ownership of the very real but not very monstrous dog that lived in the moor. Apparently they were fond of the influx of tourists, not odd considering their occupation, however it was more than a bit cruel on Henry Knight's part. That didn't change the fact that someone was still out there trying to drive the poor sod mad.

It didn't take very long for the three of them to finish up and contact the local authorities but Sherlock was practically crawling out of his skin. John wasn't sure why they hadn't just left if he was so anxious. The man slipped away at some point to do god knows what but it seemed whatever it was didn't offer much relief and he looked about ready to explode. When Lestrade had finally finished speaking with the locals he walked over to John and the fidgety detective and gave a quick smile.

"Would have though you two would have been miles away by now, haven't you got some _detective_ business to attend to."

The inspector chuckled as the two stood from their perches.

"Yes well, apparently Sherlock needed to wait for you."

John reported with a bit of confusion evident in his voice.

"Did he now? What ever for?"

Lestrade asked with just as much if not more confusion. Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically at the pair as he walked past them.

"I needed you to come with us back to Baskervilles. My brother has just given us permission under the impression that John and I will be under your supervision. Now come along, you've made us late enough as it is."

The detective declared tight lipped leaving Lestrade and John to follow behind and very confused.

* * *

John wasn't certain why he was being rushed into some computer room, but he wasn't about to complain. He wanted this case wrapped up quickly, which meant giving Sherlock free reign. Normally he wouldn't be so worried about solving a case but he still had hopes that they might make a vacation of this yet. He did feel upset about how things had progressed so far and despite their conversation in the grave yard there was a lingering feeling of doubt. Doubt in the fact that Sherlock was actually over what had happened. The man refused to admit it, but he was easily affected by chats such as the one that took place by the fire. It was evident to John that it was another one of those things they were supposed to 'sweep under the rug' however he was also aware of just how bad that habit was becoming. Even with their revelations after the 'scandal in Belgravia' they still continued to ignore such details as their feelings. Now, there was no book saying that a weekend of hotel sex was going to cure that, but John was willing to try.

Once Sherlock had seated them in front of a myriad of computer screens he took out a small recording device and set up some sort of sound system. From what John could tell the images on the computers were those of the first lab he and Sherlock had investigated on their first visit. The detective than fished his phone out from his jacket pocket and placed it on the large computer table in front of them. John was incredulous to say the least. When he shot the brunette a particularly perplexed look Sherlock gave a quick smile and then a nod in understanding.

"We're running an experiment."

He explained briefly with a motion of his hands towards the computer screens.

"Ok… what for?"

John inquired as he wasn't any less confused than he was before. Sherlock let out a small huff of annoyance before he continued.

"I have to see how the drug is getting into Henry's system. If we can find that we can the find out who could have contact with those products and from there discover who is administering the drug and why."

The detective blurted out in a rush leaving John far behind in the dust. Luckily the young man was sharper than most so a moment was all he needed to fit the pieces together.

"Alright, so I'm assuming if we're at the experimental stage you have a theory yes? So you've got an idea of what the drug might have been placed in? What is it, and dare I ask, just how do you plan to test for it?"

Sherlock simply gave a sly smirk in response to John's questioning as one detective inspector Lestrade strolled on screen. With sudden realization John whirled around in his chair and pinned the detective with an accusatory glare.

"You gave it to Lestrade! You _drugged_ an inspector! The only one who actually _likes_ you despite your constant attitude towards the force? Sherlock! Oh god-it was the coffee wasn't it! I knew it was odd to make _me _coffee but _Lestrade_…oh, some times you really know how to bugger a friend over."

John shouted as he sprang from his chair.

"Where are you going?"

Sherlock asked almost frantically as he jumped up after the blonde.

"To go get our friend out of there. I know what it was like on that stuff; couldn't you have just tested the coffee without using Greg as a lab rat?"

John answered back with a little more bite to his words than possibly necessary, but in all fairness he was rather pissed. John wasn't one to mess with his friends, or let others mess with them, even beautiful boyfriends.

"Greg…? Who is Greg?"

Sherlock asked with more confusion in his expression than John had seen in quite some time.

"You can't be serious. Greg. Greg Lestrade? The man you've known a good five years longer than me? The one you have currently drugged and presumably locked up in a lab? Jesus Sherlock! You can't drug someone without at least knowing their full name!"

John bellowed and Sherlock for all the world looked like a lost child.

"John… it's for the case. Besides, Greg is a stupid name anyway, I much prefer Lestrade."

Sherlock amended, though it didn't do much to quell the young man's agitation.

"Sherlock, I'm not going to stand here and just let you test on the poor man."

John said with a heavy sigh. Really, he knew that this was part of who Sherlock was, but sometimes it tested the blonde's limits. How could he just let the man run experiments on their friends? It was a bit much.

"What if I made it worth your while?"  
The detective purred, his entire demeanor changing instantly as he slinked closer to the young man and placed one large hand on John's chest.

"Sherlock."

John said in warning, though it wasn't very affective as his voice cracked at the end. He knew it shouldn't, but that voice and those hands… they _did_ things to him. Besides, it's not like Sherlock was going to let Lestrade get hurt. John shook his head at that; that was most definitely not his brain talking.

"Yes?"

Sherlock hummed as he dropped his head lower to let his breath caress the crook of John's neck. The young man shivered at the sensation and was powerless to do much else.

"Stop."

The blonde choked out and he hated how pathetic and needy it sounded. The detective smirked dipped himself lower and rimmed the shell of John's ear with his tongue, leaving the young man quite out of breath.

"Sherlock!"

He practically moaned and he could feel himself getting hard just at the thought of what that tongue was capable of and he cursed himself for his spectacularly active libido. Sherlock then let his hand trail down from John's firm chest to his increasingly strained crotch and gave a light squeeze which produced a squeak from the blonde that he would absolutely deny later.

"It will take but a moment to run my test, he will be unharmed I assure you, and it will allow me to solve this case that much sooner. Then we can _celebrate_."

The brunette whispered purposefully into the young man's ear. He gave John one knee buckling kiss before pulling away to check the computer screens.

"Not fair."

The blonde whimpered impatiently. He promptly corrected his pants so that they weren't straining so uncomfortably before seating himself in the chair next to the detective. It was fairly obvious that he had gone completely hard but that was by no means an excuse for Sherlock to smile so proudly about it.

"Shut up."

John huffed as he crossed his arms petulantly. He looked up at the computer screens just in time to see Lestrade frantically calling Sherlock's phone which the detective was purposefully ignoring.

"You're not even going to take the man's phone call?"

John asked with concern laced in his words. He knew what it felt like to be on the drug, Lestrade might really need someone to talk to, actually what he really needed was to not be on the drug. Sherlock must have locked the lab doors upon returning to the screens because the inspector couldn't open them.

"Sherlock, this is cruel!"

John argued.

"This is science."

The detective countered as he turned on the sound system and clicked a button on his tape recorder. With in a moment the lab was filled with the sounds of a growling dog.

"No, this is you being an arse; I'm going to get him."

John declared as he lifted himself out of the computer chair.

"John! It's too soon!"

Sherlock called after the blonde but he went ignored. There was no way some heavy petting was going to be enough to make John abandon his friends. He made his way down to the lab but found that the doors were still very much locked. The sounds of both Sherlock's recording and Lestrade's cries for help could be heard quite clearly through the metal doors however. John attempted to call the brunette on his phone but managed to only conjure up a busy signal. The blonde growled in frustration before turning to the nearest camera and giving it his best glare.

"Sherlock Holmes, if you don't open that door so help me god I'll-"

His voice was drowned out by the sound of the door unlocking and springing open. He didn't bother to make a comment he just bolted into the room in search of the inspector. This, he would admit _much_ later, might not have been the best idea. In his defense however he hadn't been aware of all the affects of this drug or just how powerful it was. So as he entered the room, before his eyes could even adjust the bright lighting, he was met with Lestrade's very determined fist. Later the inspector would insist he hadn't hit the young man that hard, John would argue however that he knew how to take a punch and it took quite a lot to knock him out cold.

* * *

When he finally woke up from his lucky encounter he was lying on the floor, but his head was rested on something soft. He blinked his eyes a few times before they came into focus and found that he was resting on Sherlock's thigh. Further investigation revealed that they were still in the main lab though. That was bullocks because he'd rather been hoping the case had been solved during his short hiatus. When he looked up at the detective he found that clearly the man had once again ventured into his mind palace. Great, he could be in there for hours. He looked like he was on the verge of something though so John just settled in and waited. While doing so he gave himself a self assessment. Greg had a good right hook he determined by the bruise that was already forming on the left side of his jaw. It felt a bit out of sorts, but thankfully it was still in place. He'd broken his jaw once during a round with his dad and knew the experience not one he wanted to relive.

Sherlock appeared to come to an epiphany as his eyes brightened and his mouth went into a wide 'o' shape. John couldn't help but feel a slight stirring in his lower stomach at how erotic the sight seemed. He'd often though Sherlock's realization face looked much like the one he wore during climax. The blonde had but a moment to consider this before there were curious hands probing his face and pulse points.

"Are you alright? How do you feel?"

Sherlock asked anxiously as he studied John's reactions to his hands flashing past his eyes. The blonde pushed the hands away and sat himself up.

"I feel fine. Is Lestrade ok?"

John questioned with a bit of agitation, this wouldn't have happened if Sherlock didn't insist on experimenting on their friends.

"He's fine. Though he did seem very upset over your injury. I assured him I'd bill him any medical expenses."

The detective almost snarled and pointed a glare in the direction John could only assume was where the inspector had left from.

"I can't believe you sometimes. I'll have to apologize to Greg for your behavior now… again."

John sighed and messaged his temples for a moment.

"He hurt you… I was worried. I've never seen a punch affect you like that."

Sherlock admitted quietly. John's features softened at the confession and he reached forward to hold the man's hand.

"I'm fine, it was just a good hit, took me by surprise."

The young man said soothingly. Sherlock didn't take long to recover from his concern and was soon back on his feet and pulling John up after him.

"Come on, I've just about figured this out!"

The brunette announced excitedly. John let himself be dragged out of the room in the hopes that this was in fact almost over. However he had only been punched once and had a feeling that they were likely to get away from this one with out at least one more attempt to put him in further harm.


	13. Chapter 13

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 13**

**Oh man oh man. Enjoy this while it lasts, next chapter starts the fall and all the deliciously angsty things that come with it. Oh! And I may be pushing my luck here but the next chapter might be up within a few hours of this one because I feel like I owe it to you guys with how late I've been lately, also, I'm excited for all the angst and the star of our next chapter.**

The case hadn't taken them very long, but it had left him drained. Emotionally and physically, which was never good but was especially inconvenient when you have a twenty four year old boyfriend with not only a magnificent libido, but an impressive level of stamina to boot. Sherlock was ready to collapse but despite how tired John looked as well he was certain he wouldn't go to sleep that night without at least one quick shag. They were finally back to their room and even as he lay on his small bed he could see that mischievous gleam in the blonde's eye that normally turned his legs to jelly but for the life of him right now all it made him want to do was groan. How much energy could he have? They'd gone running like mad men though the moor to save Henry Knight from himself and Dr. Franklin. Not to mention being exposed to the H.O.U.N.D drug once again and listening to Lestrade give some speech on consent.

John was undressing himself and while Sherlock had to admit he much liked seeing the newly exposed skin he wasn't sure he'd have been able to stroke it if he tried. The young man sauntered over once he was down to nothing but his pants and ran the tips of his fingers up the detective's leg and torso until they came to rest under his chin. John tipped his jaw to the side so that Sherlock was staring straight into those dark blue eyes that so often took his breath away. There was a smirk playing on the blonde's lips that was just begging to be kissed causing the detective to practically whimper from the combination of his desire and his unrelenting exhaustion.

"I seem to recall you promising a celebration?"

John hummed softly as he lowered himself to place several languid kisses upon Sherlock's barely functioning lips.

"I did, didn't I?"

The brunette mused allowed with a yawn. John was rubbing one hand up and down Sherlock's chest and abdomen while he placed the other on the detective's inner thigh. He was kneeling on the floor now and letting his chest rest on the edge of the bed and Sherlock could feel a shiver go through his body at the thought of the young man's knees pressed to the ground and all the delicious thing he was capable of doing in that position.

"You did, and I was rather hoping that was a promise you intended to keep."

John whispered intently as the hand he had on the detective's mid section slipped beneath the tight confines of his dress shirt to rub slow circles in his skin.

"Hmm, I'm not sure…"

Sherlock murmured mockingly, though really he was on the fence at the moment. On one hand his body was begging for sleep, but on the other he had promised and he couldn't deny that the blonde's hands were making him get hard embarrassingly fast.

"What if I said _please_?"

John purred as he crawled onto the bed and on top of the detective. As the warmth spread through his lean body Sherlock smiled and realized that it had been pointless to think he was ever going to get a full nights sleep with someone as enticing as John as a boyfriend.

"I suppose even I can't argue with good manners."

The brunette sighed as John pressed open kisses to his neck. The young man moved to kiss Sherlock properly and fully which was equal parts intoxicating and infuriating. Intoxicating because no matter how many times he did it the detective would never get over just how perfectly their mouths melded together. That, or the way John's tongue brushed against his, and the shivers it sent through him as the contact increased. Infuriating because it was times like those that his mind could do nothing but think of the events to come. John was taking his time with deepening impassioned kisses that were driving the brunette silently insane.

The blonde began to strip Sherlock of his clothes while kissing the man through out. It was an odd talent of his, among others, that impressed the detective to no end. Once he was finally naked John disposed of his own pants so that their nude bodies were pressed together in a sweet embrace. This time when they kissed there was an edge to it, one they both understood to be need. Their need for more, more of each other, more touch, more _everything_. It was something they were accustomed to but it did little to quell the fires burning in their groins.

There was a moment during this time of desperate kisses and growing need that Sherlock had a thought. It didn't last long, but it made its mark. He thought back to the night by the fire place, and when he'd watched that therapist flirt with John. It had been clear to him then that despite John's love of adventure craved stability. The blonde wanted that perfect family unit, he wanted normal. That much could be derived just from his sexuality. John wasn't homophobic, he hadn't had problems with gay men or women, what he had a problem with had been giving up his hetero-normative traditional family values. Whether he admitted it or not he wanted a family, one that Sherlock could never give him. He would try though, to keep this, to ensure John was by his side for the rest of time. Except was that really fair? Was that really going to solve anything? Or would they both just end up with lives they were struggling to keep and yet so desperate to rid themselves of? The thought made his stomach clench, he didn't think he could ever want anything more than to be in John's arms, but time was a cruel mistress and who knew what tricks she had in store.

John's hands began traveling lower and the detective decided that these were thoughts for another time, for now they were happy and in love. He let out a moan as the blonde's hand wrapped around his thick cock and gave a few slow pulls. John was placing kisses along the brunette's quivering stomach as he reached for something off the side of the bed. Soon enough it was clear that John had come more than prepared and was warming up a rather large portion of lube in his hands. The detective took this as his cue to roll over onto his stomach and he pulled a pillow over to rest his head as John prepared. Sherlock shuddered as he felt two finders slowly press into his entrance and begin to loosen him. It wasn't often that he found himself on bottom but he never argued (ok, maybe once). The feel of John's steady fingers moving inside him was so arousing that even without the press against his prostate he was almost certain he could get off. His prostate however was actually a large player in John's current administrations and it was making the brunette moan unabashedly.

Once the young man felt satisfied with the stretch he removed his fingers resulting in a frustrated groan from the detective. It wasn't long before the blonde was lining his slick cock up with the loosened entrance and slowly inserting himself. Sherlock gasped as the full length of his lover was firmly inside him. They lay like that for a moment, simply growing accustomed to the feel of their bodies connected once again. When John did begin to pump in and out it was with long and firm thrusts. Sherlock couldn't have held back his cries if he'd wanted to. It'd been a long time since he'd had a prick inside him and the feeling never failed to amaze the man. His prostate was thrumming with pleasure which only made the rubbing of his cock against the mattress that much more intense.

John began quickening his pace and was gasping for air himself. Each time the young man bottomed out there was an audible smack that sent shivers down their spines. Sherlock could feel himself growing close and couldn't help but rock his hip back against the blonde's prick. John was growing closer as well since he know doubt could feel every clench of the detective's muscles as he grew closer himself. Sherlock was chanting:

"_John John John John_."

In a rhythmic fashion as they thrust against each other. With growing desperation for release John reached around and took hold of Sherlock's leaking cock. The detective let out a low rumbling moan as his prick was rubbed up and down by the blonde's moist hand. The pressure was building tremendously and the two were shaking almost violently with need. With a few jerks of his hips John had Sherlock coming loudly and all over the young man's hand. It didn't take long for John to follow behind and Sherlock's name bubbled up from his throat as he did.

The two laid there unmoving for a long time, just breathing against each other. Sherlock's pervious exhaustion caught up with him and he could feel himself drifting to sleep despite the mess. Luckily John still possessed the energy that accompanied youth and was fully capable of wiping the both of them off. Sherlock relaxed as he felt the blonde curl up beside him on the cramped bed and wrapped a possessive arm around John as he fell into a deep sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 14**

Mary Morston was born to an average middle class family. She grew up in an average town and went to an average school. She even looked average with her dull brown hair and hazel eyes. No, never in Mary's short life had she felt anything other than average. In fact she was so average that Sherlock had deleted her several times during John and hers university years. On occasion it seemed he wasn't the only one. Even the one boy who'd treated her like something special over looked her, John belonged to the great detective. She couldn't help but harbor a crush for him, she knew it was bad, that it wasn't fair to John, but she couldn't help it. She spent her entire life blending into the scenery until one day when this perfect and magnificent boy strolled along and made her feel like the center of the universe. It was a simple comment, just a friendly compliment between friends, but it had meant the world. For the first time in her life someone had noticed what she'd done with her hair was different, and had actually formed an opinion on it. She looked back on it now and figured that it probably was because of his advanced powers of observation. Sherlock might have been the brains of the operation but John had picked up enough to impress Mary.

Don't tell Mary (for the love of god please don't) that a crush that started in her sophomore year of university should have ended long before her second year in med school. She knows. The only problem was that John was so much more than a one time compliment. He was friendly chats about school work, warm smiles, comfy jumpers, loving hugs, and helpful advice. It was more than she could stand. John was just everything she could have hoped for, and everything she would never have.

She wasn't looking for a pity party though, she wasn't even after John. Mary was a realist, she knew how this worked. Boring Mary Morston did not win out against the great detective Sherlock Holmes. It was just that simple. What complicated matters, was that she was in love with a friend, not some unattainable super star or something. She still had to try and keep his best interest at heart. Sometimes that was more difficult in practice than in theory. Her feelings could conflict easily with any number of situations, especially to those pertaining to Sherlock. So when she heard about the newest falling out between the couple she had clashing interests to say the least.

John stumbled into her flat angry and disappointed. Mary was careful not to interrupt him while he rattled off his list of complaints about the day and the detective. The young man stormed around the living room ranting and raving. The young woman just made quick work of brewing two cups of tea for when he was finally ready to settle down. She sat silently and listened to everything he had to say. Because that's what Mary did best, she just sat back and let everyone else take the show. That's not to say she couldn't be brave, or stick up for herself, but she just wasn't the main attraction. Finally John sat on the sofa and took a sip of his now cold tea. After a moment of silence he looked up at mary with some of the saddest eyes she'd ever seen.

"It was our anniversary Mary, our bloody anniversary. Just one day you know… I just wish for one day I came before one of those sodding cases."

The blonde confessed and hung his head dejectedly. That's when things changed. That's when Mary made the decision that would leave her ingrained in the detective's mind from then on. Because Mary did her best in the background, but she knew how to speak for herself, she knew how to say what needed to be said. She was going to get her doctorate in another year for Christ's sake! She could say a few choice words to an ignorant detective.

* * *

She waited until John had class and she knew Sherlock would be home because she'd heard the blonde mumbling about there not being any cases. So she made her way over to the flat on Baker street that she'd entered so many times as the timid crush in the hopes that she may now reintroduce herself as the strong friend. The sounds of slow and sad violin melodies filled the air around the flat which could only mean that she'd been correct in assuming the detective would be home. She knocked on the door twice and was greeted by Mrs. Hudson.

"Why hello dearie, So good to see you! I'm afraid John's not in though, he stepped out not a minute ago."

The older women reported and Mary nodded politely as she did so.

"I know, I'm here to speak with Sherlock, it's important."

She said plainly and Mrs. Hudson gave a sad smile but let the girl in. It seemed the current argument was no secret, though it seemed it would be hard to keep secrets from someone as intelligent as Mrs. Hudson. She walked up the stairs with determination but faltered momentarily at the door knob. The greater part of her felt she needed to speak with the man while a smaller part of her argued it might not be any of her business. She decided quite quickly that it had become her business when her flat became the mending tent. Before she lost her nerve the young woman knocked three times on the door and entered. She knew the detective wouldn't answer the call, so she put good manners aside in favor of speed. It was important this was done before John got home.

"Freckles."

Sherlock drawled with an amount of venom to his tone that made her hairs stand on end. She hated when he called her that, it was only a painful reminder of what a small role she played in John's life that she didn't even warrant the remembrance of her name. Without missing a beat she stepped into the room and returned the glare she was now receiving with a tight smile.

"What do you want?"

The man hissed as he stalked over closer to the dull woman.

"To talk."

Mary stated simply and resisted the urge to run away from those intense eyes.

"Yes, obviously. This is about me and John. You think you have some precious kernel of knowledge to offer in regards to our relationship. Well I can assure you that even with out your lack of experience you would still be the last person I went to."

Sherlock scathed and it took all of Mary's will power not to lash out right then. She didn't like being talked to like that; she was a wall flower, not a piece of trash. Instead she focused on the task at hand, on John.

"I'm just here to tell you what I saw when John came to visit me."

Mary explained quietly which seemed to perk the man's interest at least a fraction.

"Oh, and what exactly did you see?"

He asked with ice in his voice. She shook off the rest of her jitters and looked the detective dead in the eyes.

"I'm not as clever as you, I don't pretend to be, but I saw that night just how stupid you really are."

She declared with more courage than she was aware she even possessed. Sherlock seemed taken off guard as well and before he could interject she continued.

"John doesn't get upset over little things; I've seen how he operates. It takes a lot to crack his shell. In all the years I've known him, I've seen it happen four times. That's saying a lot for a med student who works two jobs. One of which I might add includes being shot at on the regular basis. Each time, _each_ time I saw him crack, it was because of you."

She stated boldly and she only took a little pride in the paling features of the detective as that information was processed.

"I'm not here to try and start anything; in fact I'm really trying to stop something. John deserves to be happy, and he gets that from you. However you're also the one who's causing the suffering. A relationship can only take so much shit without it collapsing under the weight. And sure, all couples have their fair share, but you have to shovel it out sometimes. You two don't solve anything, you just keep piling it on. John needs someone who's willing to take him seriously, not to be treated like some sidekick. You act like he's supposed to just do as you say no questions asked, that's not how things work. Plus, it might not hurt to act normal sometimes you know, like not ruin everyone of his birthday parties? I really thought you were going to do it this year but then you went insulted his newly sober sister. Really? What kind of boyfriend does that? If you would just pull your head out of your arse for five minutes you would see that you are sabotaging this relationship."  
Mary steamed and she moved to leave the flat, but just before she did she shot one more comment over her shoulder.

"John deserves better."

And with that Mary left a slacked jawed detective to his thoughts; some of which were retrieving her name and committing them to memory. Because she had accomplished two feats in just one brief visit, one of which was Sherlock actually remembering her name, the second being the most important of the two. Mary Morston, an average girl from an average family had started something that would of course be credited to a more prominent character. Mary Morston made the first move in the game that would inevitably end in the fall of Sherlock Holmes.


	15. Chapter 15

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 15**

**Thanks for all the reviews guys! And I just wanted to say that someone (who I think would prefer to remain anonyms, I don't know, maybe she'll tell me I'm wrong) sent me a message about her theories on what she thought should happen during the fall. I will tell you what I told her. I do have a pretty clear plan as to what is happening with this story (maybe it doesn't look like that cuz I'm a loser but whatever) but I am open for suggestions. I love hearing what everyone one has to say and always appreciate another perspective. So feel free to suggest away, but just be warned that there is no guarantee that it will be used.**

The flat was silent save for the small droplet of water that would leak from the sink every two point five seconds in the bathroom. Sherlock had counted while he lay in wait. Mycroft was on his way over; he'd be arriving any moment now. It was all only a matter of time. The detective had nothing to do but wait for the time to pass until the mystery unraveled. He knew what his brother was coming to say, there was no mystery in that. What might be more surprising was that there wasn't much mystery in what he was going to tell him or the man he was coming to talk about. No, there was a far greater mystery that made him lie awake at night, the one that made thought almost impossible.

It pained the detective to admit it, but the Mary girl had struck a chord. All a matter of time though. Everything had, and was, just a matter of time. He had been on the precipice of this discovery for sometime, the girl was simply the last piece. That had been months ago now and yet her words still haunted him, he thought that perhaps they always would. _John deserves better_. John _did_ deserve better. He knew that long before the freckled girl had made her way into the blonde's life. However who could blame him for being reluctant about giving John up? Sure that's not what she meant, she meant he should change, become a better person. That wasn't something he could just change though, he couldn't become normal. That's what it all boiled down to, John needed normal.

Sherlock wasn't the type of man someone married. Sherlock wasn't the man you raised children with. Sherlock wasn't the man you grew old with. Sherlock was the rush of adrenalin, late night take away dinners, midnight gun fights, and arguments over heads in the fridge. He didn't doubt that John loved him, or that he had enjoyed their time together, but like all good things, it was coming to an end. John was no longer the adventure seeking youth that had fallen in love with the mad detective. He was quickly turning into a respectable doctor who would want to settle down at some private practice and start a nice life for himself. There would be no room for some silly detective and gruesome murder cases in that life. Worse was that he was certain John would never admit it. He would grow old and bitter before he told Sherlock what he really wanted.

That's why he lay on the couch dreading Mycroft's approach. He knew what needed to be said, the conversation that needed to be had, the plan that was necessary for John's survival. There was only one way that all of this could play out, and he had already run through all alternative methods, he knew what needed to be done. Mycroft wouldn't understand, John wouldn't even understand, not yet. As usual he'd figured out the puzzle long before anyone else. It would be years before anyone realized that there was just no other way that this could play out with the majority of people still intact. Physically and otherwise. John wouldn't be happy with a life spent with Sherlock, he needed stability, someone he could rely on. More importantly, someone who wouldn't put his life at risk, which was why it was only fitting that Sherlock's last act be one that ensured John a long and healthy life.

Mycroft entered the flat with the same sense of self entitlement he always had and stood himself in front of the brunette lying on the sofa. After a moment of observation the politician seated himself in John's arm chair as usual. Sherlock did his best not to growl in protest. Mycroft set his umbrella down by the side of the chair before letting out a deep sigh. It seemed as though he was just as distressed by the impending conversation as the detective was. Sherlock shifted his body so that he could get a better view of his brooding older brother.

"This is overdue I'm afraid."

The politician admitted after a while. Sherlock nodded in agreement favoring silence at this moment. There was a lot that needed to be said, but for whatever reason his voice eluded him for the time being.

"I'm sure you deduced that after our blunder in regards to the 'bond air' mission you managed to-well that's water under the bridge now isn't it."

Mycroft paused for a beat as he collected his thoughts then cleared his throat.

"What I mean to say is after that obviously something had to be done about Moriarty, which I'm sure you knew. We spent several months tracking down his position before finally taking him into custody. I'm sorry to say that his imprisonment did not go as smoothly as his capture. He is a mad man to say the least; even our most highly trained… persuasion experts couldn't get him to speak. Only I was able to get even the smallest bits of information, but it came at a cost. I'm sure you're well aware of the man's obsession with you… it was the only way to get him to talk… during his stay we did manage with what little intelligence we did have to take apart some of his organization. It was unsatisfactory though. We had him for a little over two years and yet we'd only managed to cause a minor dent. I'm loathed to admit we had little choice but to release him. Brother… I'm not sure what you were expecting of me today but while it is not in my nature to do so often, I have come to apologize. I know it doesn't mean much given the circumstances-"

Sherlock lifted his hand to stop his brother's ramblings. He hated it when Mycroft rambled; it meant he was upset or confused, which put the detective on edge. The politician had always been a source of strength rather than uncertainty; he wanted to keep it that way. If it could be managed he wanted to make it through this conversation without any emotional break downs, from either of them.

"What's done is done. For now we must concentrate on moving forward, yes? I had already deduced the most important of that information, I am aware that you released him a while ago. Perhaps you should have told me when you had, but I understand that you've come to me now because he has resurfaced. He has refortified his organization I assume; found some means to come back stronger than ever? I'm sure you've come to the same conclusion that I have."

Sherlock said carefully as he held his brother's stare.

"He will want revenge… and he won't stop until you are dead."

Mycroft said slowly, though it appeared to cause him some distress. Sherlock sat himself up fully and met his brother's gaze on eye level.

"Yes, and if I'm not careful he will kill John in the process of doing so."

Sherlock explained carefully.

"I wouldn't let that happen. I'm here to tell you that I've got a team ready to escort both you and John out of the country until we can neutralize this threat."

"Even you couldn't hope to do something so grand in any reasonable amount of time."

"There is no other option."

"That, my brother, is where you are wrong. For once I believe I have come to the correct conclusion before you."

There was a long stretch of silence that was charged with something that Sherlock could only describe as anger. No doubt the politician had figured out what he meant quicker than most would have.

"You cannot be serious. I will not allow you to put your life at risk. Not even you could hope to fool him. Even if you did, it's not as though you could go back to solving crimes! You would-"

"I would have to go into hiding. I know, I have already formulated a plan. I will of course have to account for what ever variables the consulting criminal has in mind, but I have faith that my plans will not fail."

"Oh, so you and John will just go into hiding then? I suppose it may provide you better cover, keep him off your trail-"

"John will not be coming."

There was a much longer pause here; one that Sherlock wished to rid himself of. It was far worse than if Mycroft had simply yelled out right. There was a sense of dread that filled him in those moments and it was enough to make him want to vomit.

"What will we tell him then? I'm sure he'll be safe from Moriarty, though I wouldn't feel right without some security detail, but do you really think he'll be ok with the separation? He won't be allowed to call you, and there's no telling how long it might take to take his organization apart. You know how he worries; besides, such a distance doesn't bode well in relationships, even ones as strong as yours…"

"He… John won't be… I plan for him to think me dead along with everyone else."

Sherlock said shakily before his nerves made him change his mind. Mycroft was visibly taken back by the thought, something the detective was certain he'd never seen before.

"You can't be serious. Do you have any idea what kind of affect that could have on the boy?"

Mycroft argued imperiously.

"Of course I do!"

Sherlock shouted angrily as he shot up from the sofa. His nerves finally getting the better of him as he ran a shaky hand through his hair.

"I know what I'm doing Mycroft, this is for the best. John mustn't know. He can't. This is the way it has to be, John… he was never meant for this life."

Sherlock said quietly as he seated himself back onto the sofa. There was another long pause before Mycroft stood and made his way over to the detective so he could place his hand on the man's shoulder.

"I hope for his sake you know what you're doing."


	16. Chapter 16

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 16**

** BRB creys. **

There should be rain. Or at least snow, maybe some mixture of the two even. It wasn't really snow weather though. Sunshine just wasn't acceptable though. Sunshine was something that symbolized happiness, or days on the beach, or even just peaceful days at the park. None of that was appropriate for today. In fact, that wasn't the only thing that was upsetting John Watson on the atrociously sunny day. He sat in that uncomfortably formal suit Sherlock had bought him and wondered why Donovan and Anderson were there. He could punch them. Maybe he would. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't let go of his hand, he worried that it might start to leave a mark with how tightly she was gripping. Mycroft was there, that in itself was annoying. Then there was the fact that Lestrade was there, they hadn't even spoken in days. That stupid sun was getting in his eyes and only reminded him of just how ludicrous it was that it wasn't raining. Then there were those stupid camera men and women. Those reporters who thought they had the right. That they could just do as they pleased. It all made him sick.

John ran through his list of complaints several times as the pastor spoke. It seemed to help since he wasn't crying. He didn't want to cry, he just couldn't let himself cry. Mrs. Holmes had sniffled a bit, Mrs. Hudson had a steady stream of tears herself, but otherwise it was a crowd of dry eyes. Yes, a crowd. Many would have thought that Sherlock Holmes, quite possibly the rudest man to ever live, wouldn't have many people attend his funeral. They'd be wrong though. He'd done a lot of good in his time, and those who still had faith in the man's abilities were there. Even those who didn't had come out of respect, respect for Sherlock or John he'd never know.

The young man looked back at the news hounds as they stood in the far too sunny graveyard watching the only man he loved be lowered into the cold ground. He wondered how Sherlock could have let anything they said get to him, they were all idiots. It wasn't like him to think that way, but he felt bitter and angry. Those idiots didn't know a thing they were talking about, and it was because of them, and their need for a 'scoop' that his boyfriend had decided it was a fantastic idea to throw himself off a building. John thought it was almost laughable. He hadn't believed it at first, demanded to see the body despite Molly's protests. But sure enough, there was the same cold unmoving body lying on that cold medal slab as it had out on the sidewalk. It didn't make sense though, he knew Sherlock, he knew that wouldn't have mattered so much. There had to be more to it than that.

He desperately tried to run through the facts of the case, try to piece together just what it was that had driven the detective to his decision. Moriarty had resurfaced just to get himself arrested and then given an innocent verdict. It was insanity, and it only got worse from there. Not much of it really stuck out in his mind though. He tried to sort through the details but they all started to blend together, all of it just smeared into a large streak of red. Red, which was the color of his dreams now, when he did sleep, red, which was the color he saw each time he shut his eyes, the red that had covered the great detective's face. All because of some maniac who'd shot himself on that roof, and a couple of dumb reporters. Some blame could be shared with Scotland Yard though. Mostly Donovan and Anderson, but John was still finding it hard to forgive Lestrade as well.

John wanted to leave, desperately. He longed to put this wretchedly sunny place behind him and curl back up in his bed, in _their_ bed. The one that still smelled like the man, even though it had been almost two weeks now. John wondered how long it would last, how long it would be until he was curling up with Sherlock's scarf or shirts. Or even how long it would be until he ran out of clothes that smelt like him. Because he knew, he just _knew_, the second he watched that stupid man fall off that building that he would never, _never_, get over him. He was almost as angry at Sherlock as he was at everyone else for letting _this_ happen. Now he was trapped at this horrid place and he knew everyone was watching him, waiting for him to break. He didn't want to give them the satisfaction. He hadn't yet, not even when he had given his speech, and he didn't plan to start now. Soon enough he could do as he pleased, once he was safely hidden away at 221 b.

The affair was finally coming to an end and people were offering their condolences to Mycroft and his mother. John had done so himself long ago and refused to do it again. He was still furious with Mycroft, and he didn't dare look into Mrs. Holmes's hauntingly familiar eyes. Once he was able to break free from Mrs. Hudson's grip he made his way through the crowd in the hopes that he could get back to his home. Before he could make any progress there were several reporters in his face asking him questions, practically shouting them at him.

"How do you feel?"

"Did you know all along?"

"The people want to know, were you two secretly eloped?"

"When did you first suspect he might have been a fraud?"

"Did you have any contact with Richard Brook?"

John just wanted to get away, but they were in his face and blocking his exit. He wondered where Lestrade was, the least he could do was arrest these people for having the bullocks to talk to him. In an attempt to ignore them he tried to push past the crowd and towards the main road where he could hopefully hail a cab quickly. What he didn't plan on was one overly tenacious news castor grabbing hold of his arm.

"Don't touch me!"

He screamed, no, roared. There was such an unbridled anger and ferocity to his voice that the entire grave yard went silent. There were dozens of wide eyes planted on him now and he cursed himself for making a scene but he couldn't stop now. He'd been quiet for two weeks, hadn't said a word to anyone other than his landlady, Mycroft, and Mrs. Holmes. There was only so much a man could take without letting off some steam, and John Watson had reached his boiling point.

"Don't you dare touch me you vile scum! _You _did this, all of you! You let an innocent man, a _good_ man; die because you're too stupid to see the truth. Moriarty is real, Sherlock is-was not a fake! There's your headline! Now get the fuck out of my face, you people make me sick."

He yelled and he couldn't even enjoy the shocked expressions on their faces because of the emptiness he felt beginning to consume him. Before he could even register it Lestrade was there, tugging him away from the reporters. Donovan and Anderson were there too, waving away the crowd as John was whisked away. Lestrade was leading him to a panda car part of him registered as they drew closer to the street. He wanted to say no, to refuse, but he couldn't find his voice. It was lodged somewhere in his throat and he vaguely realized that his chest was beginning to tighten. When he was piled into the car he just stared ahead, eyes open but unseeing. It was all too much, too real, he wanted it to stop. Everything was crashing around him now. There was this feeling in his soul, as though driving away from that grave he could feel his heart being torn out and left there. Because it belonged to that man, it had probably since the first day he moved in. Now there was only emptiness, and anger. He didn't say anything when they got to Baker Street, Lestrade was saying something it looked like, but he didn't care to listen. It looked like an apology, but he didn't want one. It wouldn't fix anything, it wouldn't bring Sherlock back. He just walked away and back into his empty flat.

There was no way for him to tell how much time had passed since he walked into the flat and just stood there. In fact the only way he'd known time had passed at all was because that horrid sun had finally had the decency to set, leaving the flat eerily dark. The lamps out side gave him just enough light to see though. He could still see the pictures and clues pinned to the wall in the living room, and that wretched experiment in the kitchen. Suddenly, it was all infuriating. Everything was just extremely detestable. He stormed through the house and tore down that ridiculous collage of clues and threw them to the ground. He smashed all of the beakers and removed all of the experiments from the fridge. He even smashed his newly obtained medical license on the coffee table. There was no use for it now, what life could he live now with out the one person in it who'd mattered? The mess was horrendous but he couldn't bring himself to care. He was just so angry about everything. Those reporters, Mycroft, Lestrade, Sherlock. All of it. He just wanted it to stop; he just wanted to wake up from this horrible nightmare.

Once he'd become aware that not only were his cheeks soaked with tears but that his throat was soar because at some point he'd started screaming, he decided to slump back to his bedroom. He was drained and couldn't be bothered to even take off his suit. When he nestled himself up into the sheets that still smelled like Sherlock, and wrapped his arms tight around the stupid man's pillow, he found that somehow he still had tears to spare. He thought Sherlock would laugh if he could see him, blubbering like an idiot into a pillow. John wasn't sure if he would punch him or kiss him if he walked into the room just then to mock him. The insultingly cheerful sun was beginning to make it's return as John's sniffles began to die down into soft whimpers and he clutched tighter to Sherlock's pillow. He couldn't help but imagine all those mornings he'd woken up next to that gloriously brilliant man, humming and practically glowing as the first beams of sunshine streamed in through the window and caressed his marble skin. It had always been the most peaceful part of their day, laying their still groggy from sleep in each others arms. It didn't happen frequently with Sherlock's insomniac tendencies, but when it did it was blissful. He would never feel that way again he thought as the sun began to dance mockingly on the cold and empty sheets beside him.

Just then, for the first time in the young man's life, he wished he'd never run away. He wished, he _prayed_, that he'd never found that 'London A-Z' book or even conjured up the idea of leaving his home in the first place. He wished that he had stayed with his mother and father and never met the great detective Sherlock Holmes, who would one day make the stupidest decision ever. He wished that could have stayed and let his father bash his brains in. Because he would much prefer a broken skull over a broken heart.


	17. Chapter 17

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 17**

**Sorry this is short, but I liked where it ended. Also, another chapter should be up really soon anyway. **

It had been cold. That was always the first thing he remembered. He was standing on the top of St. Bart's hospital and it was cold. The next thing that would stand out was the look in John's eyes. No, Sherlock did not posses some super human acuity for sight, but he knew John. He didn't need to see his face to know just what it would look like as he ran up to see his boyfriend perched on the top of a tall building. The next thing was the break in John's voice when he asked him what was going on. Every time that break played over in his mind he couldn't help but think how John must have felt at that moment, coming to a conclusion that just couldn't be true, he had to ask because the obvious just _couldn't_ be true. He had wished in that moment more than any that it didn't have to be that way, that Moriarty's death had meant John's safety; that John wouldn't resent it. Because in that moment he could still go back, he could have come up with some clever excuse, he could have told him what he was about to do. Except he knew what needed to be done, John's happiness and survival depended on some momentary heartbreak.

John would get over him, he told himself as the memory repeated over and over again in his mind. He was young still, and a doctor, he would find someone new. There had to be someone in the world that could treat John like he deserved, someone who could love him the way he so rightly deserved. When he was up on that roof though, when he could hear John breaking… it tore him apart. It seemed there was nothing he could do to prevent the tears from rolling down his cheeks, not even now. He'd always been an expert at being devoid of emotion, of pushing them aside to make way for more important functions of the mind, there was no doing that now. These feelings he had for John were far stronger than anything he'd experienced before.

In the quiet moments that were so common in the Holmes family summer home he would often hear nothing but the echoes of John's desperate pleas in his mind. It filled him with an endless supply of grief. There was nothing more he wished to do than to be able to console the blonde, tell him everything would be alright. He wished John could see it like he did, that he could see how logical it was. John had been begging him not to do it, _begging_, John never begged, not like that. God it felt as though someone was twisting a knife in his chest at the thought of what pain he had caused, that it would be years before John saw reason.

It was the right reason too. No matter what Mycroft, Molly, or Mother said. How could they even begin to understand the enigma that is John Watson? Sherlock had lived with him for ten years and he still had a hard time getting a read on the young man from time to time. This would be better for John, they would see. John would get over him soon enough, some pretty little blonde thing would come ease his pain, and he would be happy. His stomach churned at the thought of his John with another man or woman, taking them on dates, making them tea, snuggling up with them on cold mornings, or making _love_. A shudder ran through his body along with a surge of rage. The thought of someone wrapping their vile arms around John's body, holding him close, and claiming him as their own. He tried to force the thought from his mind; he couldn't think like that, it wasn't right. This was what he wanted, for John to be happy, even if that meant his own unhappiness.

When Mycroft entered the sitting room Sherlock was already packed. He could see that his brother had had no time to change since the funeral. The detective sat himself up and observed the man briefly before standing all the way. Mycroft shifted on his feet uncomfortably as he was no doubt observing the brunette as well.

"The plane is waiting I assume."

Sherlock drawled imperiously as he walked closer to his older brother.

"It is… Sherlock-"

"Please, save whatever speech you have in store. We've talked about this; it's what has to be done."

"This can't wait Sherlock. I cannot let this go another moment."

Mycroft insisted causing the detective to go still.

"What I saw today… This is much harder on John than I ever calculated it to. He was like I'd never seen before. Besides, we never accounted for Moriarty killing himself in the plans. It could be a mere matter of months before its safe for you to return-"

"There's more to it than that. I do not plan to make a return no matter how safe it is. I am fully prepared to make a new life for myself wherever it is you're sending me."

Sherlock reported and Mycroft didn't seem very surprised though slightly disappointed.

"I'm not sure how you've gotten into your mind that this is a good plan, but I assure you, you are wrong. If you had seen John today you would not be doing this."

The politician explained slowly and Sherlock turned his head to face away from his brother's. He didn't want to think about John watching that casket be lowered into the ground or how the blonde must feel. Because Sherlock knew that if it had been him it would have been more than he could stand. John was stronger than him though, he would get through this and he would come out better from it.

"It is what has to be done. John will mourn and move on, and then he will have a good life."

Sherlock said coldly as he did his best to hide any hint of emotion. There was a long beat of silence between the two men before anyone even blinked. Finally Mycroft let out a sigh and moved forward to place a hand on the detective's shoulder.

"And what about you dear brother? What will you have?"

Sherlock turned to him at last with an expression that was far more telling than he'd ever be comfortable with and locked eyes.

"I will have my memories."


	18. Chapter 18

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 18**

"John! Tell me it isn't true! I swear to go if the next words out of your mouth aren't 'it isn't true' I will throttle you!"

John wasn't sure who had let Bill in his flat, but he wished they hadn't. He had been lying on the sofa quite peacefully before the young man burst in and started screaming at him. The flat had been cleaned since the funeral episode but remained otherwise unchanged. Now Bill had brought himself right next to the blonde lying on the sofa and was glaring down at him furiously.

"How am I supposed to say that when I don't even know what you're talking about."  
John sighed as he rolled onto his side so that he did have to face the young man's scowl. In the past John would have tried to calm Bill if he'd been so angry, especially if it was with him, but that wasn't him any more. John wasn't the same person, he was disconnected and angry, he didn't spend his time trying to fix peoples problems any more. Bill seemed to have been violently opposed to John's refusal to look at him as he gripped tightly onto the blonde's arm and jerked him onto his back.

"Mycroft called, he said you signed up for the army."  
Bill hissed as he brought his face centimeters from John's. The blonde stared angrily for a moment as he listened, upset that he'd been moved. He thought back to the past week and a half since the funeral and to his several attempts to register. Mycroft had been there for all but one, trying desperately to convince him otherwise. He even offered John a nice job as a private physician for his agency. Which in the past he might have accepted in a heart beat since the pay was good and the work was steady. He didn't worry about things like that anymore. The only thing that would have been enough to will him into working like that would have been to pay the rent so he wouldn't loose the flat, but Mycroft was still insistent on paying for it.

"What's your point?"

John asked scathingly as he yanked his arm free.

"My point? My point is that you're not allowed to!"

Bill shouted as he stood to run two agitated hands through his hair.

"Actually I'm a grown man and can do pretty much anything I want to, including registering for the army."

John retorted with a an edge of annoyance since he really didn't feel like having this conversation (or any really) at the moment.

"No, you're not allowed to join because it's suicide!"

Bill yelled and his voice was getting a bit rougher around the edges.

"Joining the army isn't suicide. Plenty of people come back just fine, besides I won't even be on the front lines, I'm a doctor."

The blonde explained warily with a wave of his hand.

"No. If this had happened before, then I'd believe you, but it didn't. You weren't going to sign up because Sherlock didn't want you to. He still wouldn't want you to John, especially now. You're not thinking clearly, this isn't what he'd want. He wouldn't want you to ship yourself to some desert so you can let some terrorist shoot you through the chest because we both know that's what this is about! You want to die but you don't want to look weak right? Well this is still weak John, you're giving up, he wouldn't want that!"

Bill argued angrily as he slammed a foot to the ground. John flew from the couch and stood himself barely a centimeter away from his old friend.

"Don't tell me what he would want! He's dead! He doesn't have a say in what I do anymore! If I want a bullet to the chest that's my choice, not his! And let's not forget, he's the one that gave up, not me! I would have fought with him, we would have cleared his name. If it weren't for his fucking-just, shut up! You don't know what you're talking about. If Sherlock had any concern for my future he wouldn't have jumped that day."

John declared darkly before stepping back a bit and catching his breath.

"He was wrong to do that to you, we all know that, no one's saying otherwise. But you don't have to… you can still live a good life John, you can get through this. You don't need to die."

Bill urged quietly, his voice loosing its edge for something much softer.

"That's where you've got it confused Bill. I don't need to die. I'm already dead. Sherlock killed us both that day; he just left my body behind, now I'm just trying to find him."

John admitted timidly as his eyes began to grow damp. Bill reached forward and pulled John into a large hug.

"Don't do this. There are still people here who care about you, who need you around. Think about Mary or Harriet even… think about me. I'm your best mate, think about what it would do to me if you gave up now. You still have so much more life to live."

Bill protested tenderly as he gripped tighter to his fragile friend.

"You don't know what it's like. You don't know how it feels to loose the most important person in your life. He was the one, the only one. I'll never love again. What kind of life is that? To live a life you know will never be whole again, will always be a bit more dull because the one person who gave it purpose is gone and never coming back. I don't want that life; I don't want to spend everyday wishing for just one more moment with a person who no longer exists."

The blonde confessed bitterly and Bill hugged him tighter in response.

"Don't say that. Please. Just… please, for me, give it a chance."

The young man pleaded as he anchored himself to his friend.

"Bill, the army is my chance. Maybe I die, and yes, honestly I wouldn't mind that. But if you want the truth whether it kills me or not the army is the only way I can be happy again. I need that rush, that adrenalin, it's what gets me moving. Without Sherlock... well it's the only thing I can think of that could make me feel anything anymore."

John said truthfully and he could feel a wet spot forming where Bill's eyes were screwed shut and pressing into his shoulder.

"If you're doing this, you're not going alone. I can't... it might be the only thing that can help you figure yourself out but i won't let it be the way you die. If i have anything to say about it you will be old and grey when you die. You'll still wear those ugly jumpers and bother me with stupid rants about how I should watch my diet."

Bill demanded softly as he slowly pulled away from the blonde.

"Well, you really should cut back on how many chips you eat in a week."

John mocked lightly as he rubbed his eyes. Bill chuckled softly before placing a hand on John's arm and giving a light squeeze.

"Yeah, well, I'm sure I'll be eating a lot less of them in the army won't I?"

He said with a slow smile.

"You don't have to do this Bill. For me. I don't want you to throw your life away."

"Stop. We're young, I've got plenty of life left, and being in the army gives you discipline. Employers like discipline. We'll come back from this tan, muscular and with private practices begging us to work for them. It'll be great."

Bill said with a warm smile. John found that he couldn't help but smile as well, possibly for the first time since Sherlock had fallen.

"Alright, but no way is William going to be happy about this."


	19. Chapter 19

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 19**

Training wasn't anything like the movies had made it out to be John soon found. It was difficult to be sure and often left him feeling exhausted when he returned to his bunk at night. However he found the work satisfying. The workouts were making his body more compact and brought him an energy he hadn't felt in months. More importantly though it gave him something to focus on, it gave him purpose. In no way did it seem as important as the work he and Sherlock had done, but it was something. He quickly became one of the better shooters, even surpassing cadets that had been there months longer than him. John credited this to watching Lestrade handle his gun so many times during their chases through the city.

The months flew and by the time it was September they were on their way to Afghanistan. Bill and John were stationed together in the medical center at Bastion and were positioned higher than most of their class because of their university degrees. Most men with degrees were held in higher positions so they thought little of it, John wasn't sure he considered himself above them, but rank was rank. The work at Bastion was mostly shrapnel removal, and due to their status as new recruits they didn't see much of the more serious injuries for some time. After John's first major surgery his commanding officer called him in for a chat.

It seemed that he had been speaking with Bill (of course) and came to the understanding that John was not writing or speaking with anyone back home. In fact, John wasn't talking much at all. Which was true, he wouldn't speak with any of the other soldiers, they wouldn't understand, and there was no one back home he wished to speak to other than Mrs. Hudson, but he didn't plan on speaking of war with her. Talking, the man explained, was a necessary part of being a soldier. Not talking was unhealthy and could lead to problems. He recommended John see the on base therapist, but the young man knew it would do him little good. The older man taking this in consideration urged him to speak with someone he could trust, someone who would help him make sense of his situation.

Of course there was only one person he could think of. Which is how John came into the habit of writing letters to the late Sherlock Holmes, which of course were addressed to Baker Street. He wouldn't want anyone else receiving the letters or reading their contents. John was certain Mrs. Hudson would see that the letters were kept safe though, she'd assured him in one of her letters. He wasn't sure what the older woman thought of it, but he found that he didn't really care. The letters were often short and to the point, scattered through out the months too, but they were always addressed and written to the same man without hesitation.

**September 29th **

War is nothing like you'd think it is. We don't see action on base, and the men out on the front lines don't see it everyday, though at times there are nights when the skies glow with the sparks of gun fire. I've treated several men here and I can tell you it doesn't get easier. So many of them have been crippled permanently, part of me feels compelled to go out myself and shoot the bastards causing such destruction. Though Bill would never allow it, he's made it his sole mission in life to keep me alive. I'm sure you'd approve.

**October 8th**

It is stifling over here, just the other day one of the men passed out due to dehydration. Bill's been forcing water down my throat regularly. Part of me is thankful even if it is entirely annoying. It reminds me of us in a way. How I would have to force feed you Chinese take away some nights just so you wouldn't go malnourished… I wonder sometimes if it was all for not. Was this always the plan? For you to leave me? I dreamt of my father the night previous, of him beating me bloody after catching me on my way to London. That we never met… I'm not sure if that would've been preferable, but it certainly sounds less painful.

**October 12th**

Seems one of the new patient's was from London and well aware of our exploits. He even went so far as to inform all of the men on the floor that I was in fact a poof and not fit to serve. In the past something like that would have upset me greatly, I haven't felt emotion that strong since your funeral. Bill took it hard though, I'm not sure if it was more for me or out of respect for his dad's but he certainly didn't make the man's check up a gentle one.

**October 20th**

Some nights I like to imagine that you really are receiving these. I know it's not rational or the least bit conventional, but I find comfort in it somehow. I play a bit of a game with myself you see. That you are angry that I left and there for petulantly ignoring my letters. I tell myself that I know you read them because you care, but that you refuse to contact me based off some theory that it will convince me to come home. For some reason it helps console me during the day, to pretend that in this far away land you still exist somewhere, that you are out there thinking of me, still loving me. It's foolish, I know, and you'd mock me for doing it but it's the only thing that gets me out of bed some mornings. It makes me wonder though; will I be cursed to mourn you for the rest of my life?

**October 23rd **

I saw a man today who had his face torn apart in an explosion. It was rather unsavory… you would have found it fascinating.

**October 26th**

Bill and I received care packages from Mary today; I received at lest twenty percent more chocolates than he did. He was rather put out but that only made the whole thing sweeter. She also wrote me a highly personal letter, one about how I must look after myself, if not for my sake then hers. Obviously she is still fond of me. If only she could grow to love someone else, I hate to think of her pining away after me while I spend my days pining for you. How pathetically tragic would that be? She also spoke of America though, that she was going there for sometime and that she hoped to someday stay there for good.

**October 29th**

Bill is concerned about the nature of my letters. He saw the envelope of the last one and read your name on it. I'm not sure if he could ever really understand, but to his credit he is trying. I tried to get him to write it off but it is obvious he has not. Bill is a care giver in nature, to leave a friend in need must bother him so terribly. I'm not sure if I feel worse for him or myself.

**November 2nd**

A lot of the men are returning home soon on leave. Bill and I will remain here among others for the duration. Bill takes his leave sometime in February as he's told me so many times. He's excited to see his fathers again, and all our Uni friends. I haven't told him that I requested to stay rather than take leave. I'm not sure how he will react, but I hope he won't be too mad, I know how worried he gets when I'm left to my own devices. More than likely I will receive daily letters.

**November 6th**

A group of us went into town today to visit the local village. We were providing some basic medical aide, trying to better our relations with the populace. I saw some rather brutal injuries, ones that I'd rather like to forget. There were children with scaring wounds from defective military equipment and mothers who spoke of family lost to unmarked mines. I'm not sure I will sleep well tonight with their voices stirring in my mind.

**November 9th**

Bill and I found a dead man on the out skirts of the base today. We determined the cause of death to be blunt force trauma to the back of the head. It was obvious to me it had been done by one of the soldiers judging by the precision. I brought it up with one of my commanding officers, but he merely assured me that "this is a war, there will be casualties". What does that even mean? We can just kill local men because this is war? Needless to say this did not sit well with me and I insisted on performing an autopsy. As I suspected it was in fact done by one of our own. I fought the urge to vomit at the thought and instead returned with my evidence to yet another of my superiors. No one seems to care though. Bill told me it's because they've seen so many of their men die by the hands of these people. I'm not sure that I buy that as a means of justification. Have they not seen their fair share of death as well?

**November 18th**

All attempts to bring justice to the dead Arab have fallen to deaf ears. I alone wish for justice with this matter. Maybe if you were here we could have convinced them, made them see reason with one of your biting comments and fantastic deductions. Instead I was forced to bring a dead man back to the village with no means of retribution, only apologies.

**November 24th**

I lost my first man today. His name was Ronald Wilson; he was twenty two years old.

**December 20th**

Sorry it's been so long, I took Ronald's death harder than perhaps I should have, but it made talking to you impossible. My dreams were filled with thoughts of his mourning friends, family, and possible lover. It made me think of us, what if you had died millions of miles away from me? Would it have made a difference? There are some nights that I imagine it's you on my operating table instead, that it's your vitals rapidly declining, and that there is nothing I can do to save you. When I wake up I have to choke back sobs so as to not wake the other men.

**December 25th**

Mrs. Hudson sent a Christmas card along with Mary and Bill's Fathers. It made me think of our first Christmas together as a couple, when you pinned mistletoe to almost every square inch of the ceiling in an attempt to snog me every chance you got. I said it was annoying but I'm sure you knew how amusing I really found it. What I wouldn't give for one last Christmas kiss.

**January 7th**

Bill found out that I'm not leaving with him at the six month mark. He was furious, but I'm sure he will get over it. He tried to convince me to talk to someone about it. Bill knows as well as I though that it is far too late for that. Even if I signed up to take leave I wouldn't be able to go for a few months. I hope he doesn't stay mad long, it was rather lonely at lunch today without him; the other guys didn't seem to understand. They think he's being overprotective, maybe their right, or maybe Bill sees something they don't.

**January 15th**

Why is it that all it takes is one well meaning letter for me to loose it entirely. Lestrade wrote me, told me about the case he's working and how it reminded him of us. That he misses chatting about the rugby match while you went to work insulting everyone in the room. He apologized too and wished me luck. I'm not sure when I started crying, but it didn't take long for the letter to soon become soaked with my own tears. The picture he'd painted had been all too clear, far too familiar. Doesn't he realize that I pray for just one more day of that every second of every day? Does he have any idea how badly I miss those bloody impossible deductions of yours or what an arse you could be to Anderson? No, I doubt it. So today I cried and thought of you, and wondered when all of this is going to end.

**January 22nd**

Mary says America is wonderful but she'll be returning home in two months. She doesn't plan to stay in England long; they are offering her long term employment. Perhaps a year at the most she said, until then she was going to take a temporary position at the surgery she'd done her training at. It's nice to hear that she's doing well. She also warned me about Bill though, how he worried about me, that I should be extra careful while he's gone. I'm not sure if I'm up to the challenge, but I know how much he cares, how much he's sacrificed for me, it's the least I could do.

**February 20th**

It's been a busy month to say the least. There was a series of bombings and I was responsible for many of the surgeries as Bill was gone and our other top surgeon had been injured himself on a peace mission the week previous. I'd like to think that a preformed admirably, but I lost a few men. Their injuries were far too extensive, they were dead the moment they were hit, they just didn't know it yet.

**March 6th**

Bill's back and happy to find me alive. I reassured him there was nothing to be worried about in the first place, but he didn't seem convinced. He said William wrote a play about me, Bill burned it.

**March 13th**

I dreamed of blood last night. Yours to be specific. In the midst of all this chaos and death I still am consumed with the thought of you. Look what you did to me. Did you realize how much I loved you when you decided it was ok to jump off a bloody building? Did you know how terribly I'd be affected? Because I haven't felt any different since then, the pain is still there, it will always be there I fear. Moriarty once claimed that I was your heart, but you were mine as well. I am a ghost now, trapped within my own personal hell, left to mourn you for eternity.

**March 29th**

We went on another mission today to town further out. They were worse off than the last one I saw. You would have had a field day with all the crimes that were going on. It was evident that there was a gross problem with robberies and violence, mainly domestic. I tried to put it out of my mind and just treat the physical. There is nothing I can do for these people except pray.

**April 3rd**

Bill received a tape from William that read "what you're missing" which we assumed was a summary of everything happening back in London while we are stuck out in the desert. It in fact was a collection of recent events, however there was one small twist. William insisted on acting each one out. I think it goes without saying we all had a good laugh at that, even Bill couldn't help crack a smile despite his obvious embarrassment. Afterwards we all got drunk and played cards. I don't think I've felt that good in months.

**April 14th**

There is never any warning when these things happen; I'm not sure how much it would help. We lost four soldiers today to a suicide bomber. There was nothing that could be done for them; our only solace came in the fact that they were killed instantly. I can't help but think of their families. I wonder if it comforts them to know that they went in willingly, that it was for their country. I doubt it; I don't think anything could have made your loss easier on me.

**May 10th**

I was promoted to captain today. I think for the first time in a long time I feel pride in what I do and that people have taken notice. Bill cheered along with the rest of our mates as we celebrated. The more I look at the medal though the more I can't help but think of how much fulfillment it gave me to have it pinned upon my chest. I'm not sure that Bill would approve, but I gave serious thought to making a career of this. At least then I could continue to live this fantasy, where I imagine you at home reading my letters and muttering grumpily to yourself. Would you have been proud of me? Even though you hated the idea of me over here, would you have cheered like the men cheered tonight? I'm not sure, but I'd like to think that you are, where ever you are that you care and that you approve. That's all I could hope for.

**May 13th**

I'm going on leave in a month. It is against my wishes of course, but a certain minor league politician seems to have ties with the military. There is no proof of course but the whole thing reeks of Mycroft. I'm not sure why he would do this, but I'm sure he has some strange and obscure reason. Bill thinks it's a good idea and is writing his parents about it. I will no doubt have to visit them while I'm in town. Of course I'm not sure who else I will have to see for the month that I'm home other than our empty flat. I wonder if my illusion will be broken? Will I go there and see my stack of letters and once again be filled with the realization of how stupid it was for my to picture you lying on the sofa reading these things? Or perhaps Mrs. Hudson will have thrown them away and I can pretend you are away on business. I'm not sure how productive that would be, but I'm not sure I can handle going back to reality just yet. Maybe I never will.

**May 19th**

I've decided that I will visit Lestrade and forgive him. Judging by his letters I'm not sure he will be able to rest without hearing it. I intend to visit Molly as well, we never really talked much but she sent a few care packages with kind words and tea, and the thought didn't go unnoticed. Mrs. Hudson is obvious, though I plan to see her a lot, I miss having tea with her and discussing the news and the weather like old times. Of course I will also have to see Mary as she has returned to London by now and I'm not sure I will be home again before she leaves. I'm sure I'll have to see Mycroft, find out what all this nonsense is about in the first place, not that I'm really looking forward to it. Perhaps he's going to tell me he won't pay for the flat anymore. That wouldn't be so bad since I'm more than capable of paying for it myself now. I'm not sure what to expect from all of my visits, but I hope it's not too dull.

**June 4th**

The men are throwing me a going away party tomorrow; it's supposed to be a surprise. They're far too obvious though. It's no matter, I will enjoy it all the same I'm sure. It may seem odd given all the death and destruction I've witnessed, but I'm going to miss it here.


	20. Chapter 20

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 20**

Most people probably would have found some solace in the warm temperature and cool tropical breezes. Perhaps it would even distract them enough to enter a state of imagined happiness despite their plight. However, as we all know, Sherlock Holmes is not most people. So the weather nor the spectacular view he was now in possession of offered any comfort. In fact they did little but intensify the man's depression. His warmth only reminded him that he would never feel the bitter cold kiss of an English winter, one in which of course would have been spent with John. The view of course was something that a man of his intellect would find pointless in the extreme, he knew for a fact John would not. John was the sort of chap who enjoyed a good view, he might have even written a poem about it if he were so inclined. That was the sort of man he was, a romantic.

Sherlock frowned at the thought. John was so caring and faithful; would he have done the same thing in Sherlock's position? If their positions had been reversed would John be sitting here alone writing about tropical sunsets? Or would he be wrapped around the detective despite the heat? Sherlock cringed at the thought, he knew that John wouldn't have left him, not ever. That didn't change that this was what needed to be done. Sherlock knew in his heart that John needed to move on and live his life the way he wanted to.

He had been in the tropics for a few months before Mycroft brought news that it wouldn't be long before the remainder of Moriarty's web disintegrated. It brought him little joy though, even at the prospect that he'd be allowed to leave the secluded spot in the middle of no where for somewhere more populated, and with a higher crime rate. Solving a case didn't sound like a cure for how he was feeling, but it seemed better than lying around in the overly expensive house on the beach Mycroft put him in. Now all he had to do was wait and hope that when he did start taking cases again he wouldn't be too terribly reminded of his days with John and Lestrade. He wasn't sure he'd be able to go onto a crime scene and not envision the two of them chattering away, or John praising his deductions and keeping him in line.

When he finally got word that the day was coming that Mycroft would be sending a plane he wasn't sure if he should feel excitement or dread. He didn't necessarily want to leave, but he didn't feel as though he wanted to do much anything anymore. So he packed his things and finished his experiments in preparation. By the time the plane came he was ready to leave, but he wasn't sure he wanted to.

* * *

When they landed Sherlock was furious. Mycroft had brought him to London, of all places! No doubt the man had some trivial thing to discuss with him. The detective did his best to keep quiet as he made his way into the car his brother had sent him. The ride was uneventful but gave him plenty of time to think of all the ways he could exact his revenge. London looked unchanged as far as he could tell and for some reason that angered him further. He didn't expect it to change, but it was almost insulting to him that his departure made so little impact. Did anyone really notice his absence? He felt hurt at the cold reminder of just how little he really mattered. John would remember, John noticed, he had to. Sherlock wasn't sure if that helped or not, since John was the one person he would want to forget him.

Mycroft's house looked just as imperious and pompous as he remembered as the car pulled into the long driveway. The driver took his bags from the boot of the car and walked towards the side entrance. Sherlock opted for the front and began to make long deliberate strides towards the door. When he arrived he didn't bother with knocking and simply burst in. Mycroft didn't seem surprised; in fact he appeared extremely prepared, perhaps too prepared…

"How nice to see you after all this time."

Mycroft greeted with a smile that held no warmth. Sherlock scoffed as he walked into the main foyer to get a closer look at his brother.

"What am I doing here? Shouldn't I be off to some remote city in Russia or something?"

The detective bit out as he observed his brother's apparent lack of sleep in recent months.

"You should be well on your way to a rather nice city in America if you choose to go."

The politician explained with a mysterious gleam in his eyes.

"Of course, where else would I go? It doesn't matter to me so long as I have a place to stay and cases to solve."

Sherlock answered angrily, no longer wanting to play whatever game it was his brother had invented for him. Mycroft was silent for a moment; his eyes looked sharp and calculating as they studied the detective head to toe.

"I was hoping given recent events you might want to consider staying here."

The man said carefully as he observed his brother. Sherlock took a step back and looked at the politician in shock. Could he be serious? Stay here and reveal himself to John? Didn't he understand what Sherlock was trying to do? If it was possible his shock doubled tenfold when he considered the first portion of that statement. Recent events? His heart must have leapt into his throat because he was finding it difficult to make any sound. Had John been hurt despite his brother's efforts? Had John taken his death harder than he originally considered? The possibilities swam behind his eyes with graphic detail before Mycroft placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"He returned from Afghanistan yesterday."

Mycroft informed quietly with a tightening grip on the detective's shoulder.

"He… what? You, you let him go to war? Do you realize how dangerous that is? What could have happened to him? He could have been killed!"

Sherlock pushed away from Mycroft as he shouted, he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"It's not as though I had much choice, with you 'dead' it was unlikely anyone would be after him so it really was none of my business. I tried to convince him otherwise but in the end it was his decision. He had the right to mourn as he saw fit. Bill went with him, from what I understand it was to keep him safe, and so he has. If it had been up to me he'd have never had the chance to go to war, he'd have been with _you_!"

There was a pause where both men were silent and glaring. Finally Mycroft turned away to clear his throat before speaking.

"I just thought you should realize the situation here brother. John did not take your death well. Mrs. Hudson informed me the boy was sending letters back to the flat… addressed to you. I'm afraid I found it necessary to read them in order to observe his state of mind. They are upstairs in the guest room. You may find it beneficial to read them before you make your decision."

Mycroft said tentatively as he exited the foyer. Sherlock stood still for some time before he began his slow journey up the stairs. Normally his brain was occupied with the task of deducing, observing, and postulating. Now it was as though everything were in slow motion, his mind was only concerned with one thought at the moment. John, his John, had been suffering. Almost an entire year had passed and he was still mourning? How long did these things usually take? He wasn't sure he knew for certain. Could it be that he had misjudged John's level of admiration?

When he reached the bedroom there was a large stack of letters bundled on the foot of the bed. The detective picked them up slowly, observing his name which had been methodically scrawled onto each envelope with great care. Only the great Sherlock Holmes would have noticed the slight change of slant and indentation as the letters grew closer to the current date. Only he would notice just how greatly John was being affected by the war just by the way he addressed a letter. John was clearly becoming someone different, someone who had seen friends and colleagues die, someone who had witnessed tragedy, someone who was loosing hope.

Reading the letters took a lot of strength, and by the end he felt properly exhausted. He lay on the bed and thought through his decisions as well as what John had been through, was _going_ through. Had it all been worth it? Was John better off? He didn't sound it, it didn't sound as though he had any intentions of moving on. Perhaps, god he was loathed to say this, but perhaps Mycroft had been right. John deserved a choice in the matter. Maybe Sherlock wasn't the best choice, but perhaps he was simply the only choice. John had always enjoyed their time together, and he clearly loved the detective, so maybe if he wasn't capable of loving another, they could work through his need for normalcy. Sherlock wasn't sure what he wanted though. Of course he longed to have John to himself again, to hold him and keep him as his own. However he did still feel a pang of guilt for his future. It was still possible that he might just need more time to consider a life without Sherlock, see what opportunities were available. Sherlock decided there was only one real way of knowing how to proceed, and that would be to observe John for himself. So it was decided, he would venture over to Baker Street the following day in disguise, and he would figure out just what was the best course of action. He wasn't sure he'd be able to sleep that night with the anticipation gnawing away at him. As he turned out the light he just hoped that his excitement in seeing John wouldn't make him do anything rash.


	21. Chapter 21

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 21**

**Burning Phoenix made this fantastic fanart to go along with this story and a song she found related rather well, and I must agree! It is wonderful and I am completely flattered! You can find it on her brilliant blog post / 25463351390 / so – i – was – catching – up – on – a – fic – called – four**

**Take out the spaces and parenthesis by the way. **

**Oh and I apologize in advance. **

**(Not edited yet)**

The flat was colder than he remembered when he walked in for the first time. It was clear from the lack of dust that Mrs. Hudson had been through to at least do the dusting. Other than that there were no signs of it actually being disturbed. John set his army issue duffle bags onto the living room floor as he went about quietly inspecting the place. Everything was just as he'd remembered and a small smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. It even smelled the same, of cigarette smoke and old take away mostly, the scents must have soaked into the floor boards. The whole place was quiet and John was briefly filled with the memory of when he'd first arrived here. He'd been young and naïve, no where near as experienced as he was now, now that he'd earned himself a degree and lived through enough tragedy for a life time. When he'd first walked through the door and met Sherlock Holmes all he could recall was being oddly fascinated by it all, including Sherlock. Then he remembered the first time he'd come in after Sherlock had died, all fascination the place once possessed was drained completely.

It wasn't the antlers on the wall, or the skull on the mantle, or even the heads in the fridge that had made this flat so interesting, he knew that. It had been Sherlock, it had always been Sherlock. He peered around the room and was filled with a mixture of nostalgia and sorrow. It didn't seem right for the flat to be so dull and morbid when it had once been a place of such joy. There had been a time not so long ago that John would ache to get back inside. He had felt such a deep attachment for the place as it had been associated with late night teley, lazy mornings in bed, and even just domestic moments spent in the living room during the day. The Kitchen table still adorned the notes on the hanging experiment Sherlock had been working on. The manikin was still lying upstairs in John's old room that had quickly become a storage area after they started sharing a bed together every night.

Everything so obviously frozen in time was all the proof he needed to know that it had been Sherlock that provided all of those warm feelings. No piece of furniture or fabric could ever hold such importance. Still, he couldn't bring himself to discard of Sherlock's old possessions. They littered the flat providing a distinctly mausoleum like feel the atmosphere. John let out a wary sigh as he observed all of their things mingling together in their usual manner, one that had been forged over years of companionship. He cringed a bit at the sight of Sherlock's scarf balled up on the sofa, he vaguely remembered clinging to it through racking sobs the night before deployment. If Sherlock had seen he would have mocked him, it had been quite pathetic.

In fact the more John thought of it the more he realized just how pathetic it all really was. It had been a year now and he could only describe his depression as marginally better. He was able to manage it now, keep control of himself, but the emptiness remained. Certainly he'd thought that in no way would he forget the detective or ever not feel sad about the man's death after a year, but one would think it was enough time to at least be able to function normally. However he felt just as lost as he did the day he left the flat and the thought angered him. How would he ever be able to face all of his friends during this visit with it being so obvious that he showed no signs of improvement? That John seemed incapable of recovering from the loss. He had watched people he considered close friend die from horrific wounds brought on by the sole intention of serving their country, but he barely gave them any thought compared to the hours he spent mourning Sherlock still to this day. He'd been writing letters to him for Christ sake!

At the thought of the letters he did a bit of rummaging and found that they were no where to be seen. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson had them in her flat for safe keeping, or maybe she delivered them to Sherlock's grave, or perhaps she had just plain thrown them out not knowing what else to do. Whatever she had done he decided he was better off not knowing unless the woman herself decided to bring it up. He didn't think looking at them would do him any good, just remind him of how alarmingly low he was. John had found himself in such a pit that he really didn't care what Mrs. Hudson thought of or did with the letters at all. Nothing mattered much really. He wondered idly if it would be considered ironic if he'd come home from war only to die from committing suicide while Bill's watchful eye was miles away. The idea didn't sit well with him though, Bill had been through hell for him, he owed him. Besides, he had breakfast with Mrs. Hudson in the morning, lunch with Bill's parents, and drinks with Mary in the evening all in the same day. There was far too much he was expected to do the following day to kill himself now.

The soldier gathered his things and brought them into his and Sherlock's old room. When he entered he half expected it to still smell of the man's spicy aftershave that he'd become so fond of after seeing it's affect on John. What he discovered was that the room had only managed to retain the faint aroma of what John considered one of the more tame experiments of Sherlock's. It was still boxed up in the closet no doubt, Mrs. Hudson clearly hadn't spent much time in the room as there was a thin veil of dust lying on top of all the surfaces. He threw his bags down on the floor at the end of the bed and proceeded to collapse onto the soft mattress. It was more comfortable than the cots they'd slept on in Afghanistan but he couldn't help but feel uneasy with the amount of memories that assaulted his mind. This had been their bed, where they'd shared so many intimate moments. Making love was one way John could be sure to hear the detective tell him how much he loved him, and the same was true for himself. Neither of them had been particularly vocal about their emotion in day to day conversation, but when they were so close and slowly unraveling themselves it hardly seemed any trouble to open up that part of themselves, to reveal how much they truly cared.

Suddenly lying in his bed was the last thing he wanted to do. There was no need for him to spend the night remembering all the times he had spent holding that porcelain body flush against his own, hearing that deep voice purr adorations in his ear. Those times were over now, he would never feel in such a way again. He lifted himself from the bed and prepared himself for a good nights rest. The flight had been exhausting and he had a long day ahead of him. Once he was in some suitable pajamas he laid himself out on the sofa tucked beneath one of the blankets that normally was draped along the back of his chair. As he slowly let sleep over come him he wondered if there would ever be a time that he could manage a day without being overcome with memories of the great man who had, and always would, possess his heart.

* * *

Sherlock donned a simple disguise before exiting the stifling manor in favor of roaming the streets of London. He was hesitant to go in search of John so suddenly given that he hadn't had much time to prepare himself. He'd just learned of John's feelings the night previous and that combined with his own thoughts on the matter made the entire excursion dangerous. It was dangerous because it was hard for the detective to imagine John in pain, especially if that pain was over something he had done, and it would make it difficult to restrain himself. If he witnessed even one wistful sigh he might come undone on the spot, just run over and reveal himself. Which really wasn't practical in any sense.

The reasons Sherlock had left still stood, and one year was hardly enough time to go assuming John would never find someone better. There was sure to be better people out there for John, who could take care of him. The only problem was that while Sherlock was still very aware of why he made the decision, and why he felt it was the right one, he couldn't help but wish there was a way he could hold John once more. He was certain what he was going through was in no way comparable to what John was, but their separation was treating him poorly as well.

As Sherlock made his way through the city the cool morning breeze and low rumbles of cars on their daily commutes reminded him of better days. When John and him had been up all night on a case, so by the time they were returning home most people were starting their day. The two of them would pass out on the couch more often than not; however there were times when they were still too high off adrenaline and would end up shagging each other senseless before sleep washed over them. The thought caused the detective to smile sadly and clear his throat of a non-existent blockage. He would give anything for one more night with John.

It was obvious to Sherlock that seeing John would take a toll on him. If he did decide it was all too much, that he couldn't stand to be apart from the man, he wasn't sure what to expect. It was entirely possible for John to go into shock he supposed, which wouldn't be good. Though John had only been home one full day, perhaps his reflexes would still be tuned in for war. Seeing a dead boyfriend my not affect him like it would a normal civilian. Which he found mildly comforting and utterly infuriating at the same time. He would be glad for John not to be too affected by his reintroduction, but that didn't mean he'd wanted John to go away to war. War was dangerous for so many reasons, and for everyone, but it was worse when one was related to or close to a Holmes. Their family was notorious for being deeply involved with the government and for having a lot of enemies for it. A war was the perfect way to cover up an assassination. He shuttered at the thought and hoped that even if he didn't reveal himself that there was some way he could keep John from returning. Though he really couldn't take his mind off the prospect of walking into the flat now as if nothing had happened. To scoop John up and into his arms; to hold him close and just stay like that forever. It would never be boring to just hold John, his year away had taught him that much.

Baker Street was fast approaching now and Sherlock drew in a deep breath. He was nervous and not entirely sure why. As far as he was concerned revealing himself (while a wonderful thought) was not in the cards. If John appeared content in any way Sherlock would have to carry on and leave the man be. The detective had made his choices for a reason, and he stood firm that those reasons were still relevant. John didn't realize just how much he wanted normalcy, perhaps once he had it he would understand. The letters had made him question that a bit, but it was likely that John would not be thinking rationally while in the middle of a war zone. He was still grieving, but in a few months he may be happy again. Sherlock cursed himself for the small flare of hope that John was doing miserably when he arrived just as an excuse to end all of this. He wondered how they would manage if he came back and attempted to be average. Before the thought would have sickened him, but now it seemed like the lesser of two evils. Sherlock prayed that whatever he saw would at least just be clear enough to make the decision for him.

* * *

Breakfast had been nice and filled with tears. Mrs. Hudson had missed him. They didn't speak of the letters, but John supposed there was a whole month for that. He was glad that most of the conversation revolved around the older woman and her exploits over the past year rather than John's. There wasn't much he wanted to discuss, especially not with Mrs. Hudson. She had chatted with him well into the morning and John eventually had to excuse himself to meet Bill's parents at a restaurant across town. They were just as glad to see him as his landlady was. William was just as expressive as he had remembered and explained the play he had just been in with great detail. Once they had finished eating David tried to inquire how the grieving process was going but John didn't offer much of a reply. He'd rather talk about the war than Sherlock. No one needed to know just how desperately he was aching for the man, it was pathetic. There was no way that Sherlock would have been so affected by John's death, he would have moved on. Sherlock had been strong and resilient; he would have come out ok. John was wrecked though, and for a brief moment he wished he could have been the one on that roof.

Lunch didn't last very long after Sherlock's name was mentioned and John made his way over to the pub where he'd be meeting Mary. It was hours until she would arrive, but he needed a drink. When he arrived he was almost happy that there was no one there he recognized. He needed some time to think before Mary showed up. Thinking, of course, involved a great deal of alcohol. Sherlock would have been disappointed; he never like it when John drank, but he needed the numbing affect it had on his mind. His head was swarming with memories now that he'd returned to London and he wanted nothing to do with them. All they did was remind him of what had been lost.

When Mary did arrive she looked concerned. She ordered herself a drink and sat done next to John. It was silent for a moment before she asked him how things were. Which was a stupid question really because it was clear things were not fine, and John was just drunk enough to tell her that. She didn't look upset or offended though, just sad. He apologized anyway and hung his head, he knew that Mary hadn't done anything, she just wanted to help. John tried to steer the conversation towards Mary and her time in America which she seemed pleased about, but somehow they kept coming back to Sherlock. By the time the bar was closing he was pissed out of his mind and blathering some nonsense about his heart being torn out. Mary listened kindly as she rode in the cab with him back to Baker Street. She didn't seem to mind the rant, though she was properly buzzed herself which may have contributed to that.

When they got to 221b Mary paid the cabby and helped John with the key and up the stairs. She observed the flat with a sort of reserved sadness as she brought John to the sofa. Mary was making ready to leave when John's hand shot out and caught her by the wrist, she looked back at him with confusion. The soldier sat himself up clumsily so that he could be closer to eye level.

"Don't go."

He whispered roughly as he tightened his grip on her momentarily.

"John, you're drunk, and I'm tired. I need to get some rest."

Mary replied softly as she tried and failed to retrieve her hand.

"Please, I… I don't want to be alone."

John said with a crack in his voice that made Mary's eyes go softer. She sat herself next to him and he released her hand in response. She rubbed his back in slow circles while they sat in silence for a long moment.

"I miss him Mary. I miss him so much and it's been a whole bloody year. What am I going to do? How will I ever be happy again? God I hate how pathetic I sound but I can't help it! He did this to me! He ripped out my heart out and left me to bleed out. Every day feels like I should be getting better, that I should be moving on, but I can't. I don't think I ever will."

John slurred to the woman and rested his head upon her shoulder as his body began to grow heavy with sleep.

"It's not pathetic John. You loved him, we all knew that. He loved you too, even though he was the world's dumbest genius, he had the good sense enough to do that. It was careless and stupid the thing that he did, but I don't doubt for a second he loved you. He would want you to get better you know. I think you can too, I think you can be better if you really try. Give it time and I'm sure everything will work out just fine."

Mary said lovingly and then leaned in to press a soft kiss against his temple. John sighed at the touch. It had been a long time since he'd been so open with another person, or been so near them as well. They were lucky not to have too close of living quarters while on base so John had plenty of space. Now that seemed like a horrible thing as he felt the brush of Mary's lips on his head. He had missed being touched in such a delicate manner. Suddenly he looked up into Mary's warm hazel eyes and leaned in to place a gentle kiss to her rose petal lips. They felt nothing like Sherlock's, but they were nice and felt comforting. She looked lost for a moment but then John quickly returned his lips to hers. She was tense at first but she soon became pliant and allowed John to slowly lower her to the couch. Her body was soft, warm, and inviting which was exactly what he needed. He needed to feel close to someone again. There was something crucial about human contact that he'd been missing since Sherlock's death and his body was starved for it. He longed for it to be Sherlock's long fingers weaving through his hair and trailing down his chest, but he knew it was something he could never have again. However for maybe a little while he could take comfort in the warm body beneath him and hope that it might relieve even a fraction of his suffering.

* * *

Sherlock stumbled backward from his place on the roof. For a moment he questioned the reliability of binoculars and threw them to the ground. No, he knew what he'd seen and it was breaking something inside of him. He had wanted John to be happy hadn't he? So why was he so upset? Certainly he should be glad that John is feeling well enough to partake in some sexual escapade with Ms. Morston. However all he felt was bitter jealously and betrayal. Which was extremely unfair, John thought he was dead; he could do as he pleased. Except it was clear to the detective now that part of him had really hoped John would have been as incapable of moving on as he was. That was clearly not the case.

He stumbled to a sitting position as the emotions washed over him. Of course it would be Mary, she was so dull and ordinary. She had always liked John and would take any chance she had with him Sherlock just knew it. He knew that she had swooped in, probably planned all of this from the moment his empty casket was lowered into the ground. Everything was her fault! She had come to him and berated him about his treatment towards John which was the final nail in his coffin as far as he was concerned. She convinced him John would be better off with someone else, that someone else had turned out to be her. He wanted to storm in there and tear her off of him. No one should be permitted to hold John like that. Only Sherlock should be allowed to curl up on his chest in such a manner.

The thought of what he'd done made him sick. He had cast John away, made him mourn, crushed him. Now that John was getting over him he was angry? It was horrible and he knew it. John deserved to be happy, and he had made the choice that John would find that happiness somewhere other than himself. So it was grossly unfair of him to feel hurt by the soldier's actions, but he was. There was a stabbing pain in his chest as he thought of the two of them together. Their bodies coming together and moving together like John and his had so long ago. It was a disgusting feeling, to think of what he had thrown away, what he'd let Mary take away from him.

Suddenly it was far too much for him to be sitting on that roof so close to them. He got to the road and hailed a cab as quickly as possible. There was no way he could stay near that. He made a hasty retreat for Mycroft's mansion and planned to spend the day locked in the guest room save for the briefest of moments in which he would demand that his brother send him far away from London. In the guest room he would do his best to not think of John and his new found love. Or of what he'd done to John and himself. All the things they could have had that he'd been so foolish to have not seen before. Of course he wouldn't have realized what it was that he truly needed until it was too late. It wasn't fair of him to go in there and demand John back, he had his chance. John deserved better, and it seemed now he had finally found it.


	22. Chapter 22

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 22**

**Thanks for all the lovely reviews everybody! Also just wanted to say how strange I find myself that I'm listening to 'dick in a box' and writing angst. Yup, I'm weird.**

Breakfast, John recalled, had once been one of his favorite meals. It was the start of your day and could be spent slowly enjoying a good meal while your sleep gradually dissipated. He had always enjoyed his first cup of tea with a special sort of enthusiasm which added to the occasion. Everything was calm during breakfast; it offered a sort of tranquility that helped ease his troubled mind. As a child this had proved true mostly due to the fact that his father would sleep well into the afternoon, once he moved in with Sherlock he had a few mornings that were less than peaceful, but the detective soon came around to indulging in John's routine… usually. Even with Sherlock though he had never had a breakfast quite so nerve wracking.

Mary sat across from him at the small table with her clothes wrapped around her in a hurried manner. John had waked with a start and the two of them had just stared at each other until Mary offered to make some eggs. Mrs. Hudson had done some shopping (just this once! As she had informed) in preparation of John's arrival so there were plenty of supplies to make a decent meal. She had thrown on her discarded clothing before rushing into the kitchen to cook. John wasn't sure how long he had sat there in shock, but by the time he had willed himself to dress the food was done.

The soldier wasn't sure what to think as he bit into a piece of toast. Mary was his friend, and he knew that she had never quite gotten over her crush on him, but that only seemed to make it all worse. A stranger wouldn't care that John wasn't looking to pursue any relationship, nor would he be likely to talk to them again. He didn't remember much of what happened but that didn't offer much relief. It was still obvious what happened and whether either of them had memory of it wouldn't really change the fact that they knew what happened. Part of him just wanted to blurt it out, just tell her fight now how big of a mistake he thought it was, but he didn't want to hurt her. There was no way of telling how drunk she had been, but he had a sneaking suspicion in the way her eyes were shifting that it hadn't been close to how bad he had been. Part of him wanted to be angry at her, but considering how he'd been feeling lately he was sure that he'd put some pressure on her. Would he have had so much restraint if Sherlock had acted in such a way all those years ago? He wasn't sure, but there was no use debating it now. What was done was done, now they just needed to focus on moving past. Because there was no way he could manage a relationship with Mary, he just hoped she would see the reason in that.

"No use in tip-toeing around it any longer. We slept together."

John stated just before he took a sip of tea to calm his nerves. Mary stilled in her movements for a moment in shock as she tried to process the situation.

"Y-yes, we did."

She answered quietly and kept her gaze directed at her hands or the table.

"You… I'm sorry this happened Mary, not because I don't think you're a lovely person or anything, but because it's clear that I am no where near ready to be in a relationship."

John explained plainly, hoping that his matter of fact manner tone would help things seem less confusing than they really were.

"I know. It was wrong… I should have been more adamant about stopping you. I just… I don't know, I thought maybe it was something we both could have needed. That maybe it would help you move on or something… and that I could at least have you for one night."

Mary supplied softly as she took to twiddling her fingers nervously. John ran a hand through his hair while he tried to sort through the thoughts buzzing in his mind.

"Let's not worry about why we did it, ok? We had our reasons for doing it, but that doesn't change things between us. You're going to America in a year, and I plan to live here when I'm not away with the army."

John said sternly. He really hoped that no matter what transpired the night before that Mary didn't have any illusions about what was going to happen. While he cared for her deeply he certainly didn't care for her in that way, and with his still being love with Sherlock, well… it was just all around a bad idea.

"That's… fine, yeah, I figured as much. Just promise me this won't ruin our friendship, I… I don't think I could take that."

Mary said shakily as she clasped her hands together. John moved from his seat and walked over to the trembling woman. Clearly the mornings events had affected her more than they had him, though he supposed she'd never been to war. He gently lifted her from the chair so that he could pull her into a comforting hug and place a chaste kiss to her forehead.

"Our friendship remains intact. We're much too close for something like this to separate us."

John reassured her in a soothing voice. Mary held tighter to him for a moment before moving back to look up into his eyes.

"I'm glad you feel that way, John. I don't think I could ask for a better friend than you."

She admitted with a light sniffle. The soldier stepped back further and ruffled the woman's hair lightly with a broad smile.

"Of course, I'm priceless."

He joked lovingly and Mary gave an amused huff. The two of them soon fell into more familiar conversation about Mary's stay in America and John's plans for his time off. Despite the friendly tone the rest of Mary's visit had he really hoped that the previous night didn't come back to haunt him. As much as he loved Mary he didn't want to linger on possibilities that really didn't exist. However she seemed amiable enough when parting and he figured that it was likely that the two of them could put the misjudgment behind them without much trouble.


	23. Chapter 23

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 23**

**So I let my sister borrow my laptop and when I opened this up I found this written:**

Ok, so, butts, and more butts. John has a butt. It is a nice butt. Butts. Butts. Butts. Army butts. He's in the army, with his butt.

**I figured you might appreciate her take on my story.**

Something that many people would never know was that John Watson was not the only one with an attachment to certain Thursdays. However while John was still unaware of these days, and wouldn't see them for what they were until much later on, there was another man not too far away who was far more clued in. He had always been more keen to detail, so his own Thursday stuck out like a sore thumb. Would it have been an ordinary day he would have never remembered it with such intensity. It was as though recalling the day sent him straight into the memory, reliving every detail with vicious accuracy. His chance at rectifying the situation quickly was ruined due to a certain government official. Now it was over a year later and he still hadn't managed to obtain any sort of justice. Worse yet was just how difficult it had been to even accomplish that. If he had known how difficult it would be he may have taken a more direct route, however the end result would have also concluded in his death, and he had other concerns as well.

This would be his last mission, just one more before he retired and took care of his boss's last request. It was causing him more trouble that it ought, but the Holmes brothers were more clever than he'd given them credit for. Of course they were. That's why Sherlock was prancing around with some secret security detail somewhere while Jim was buried in some cold wooden box. The burning sensation in his chest at the thought hadn't gone away since that Thursday that brilliant man had lodged a bullet in his brain. Sherlock had killed the only man he'd ever loved, and it was near time he returned the favor.

He had to spend months in hiding to convince the elder Holmes that the rumors of his suicide were in fact true. It was the only way to ensure he could go across borders without them monitoring for him specifically. Even after then he had to device a plan, gather together a team, just so that he could get close enough to that blonde prick out in the middle of that god forsaken desert. It wouldn't be too hard to get a shot, so long as he had a good distraction, and he'd put Jim's money to good use on that.

The desert was hot and reminded him of his own days in the service; back when he was working for a bunch of idiotic dicks. What did they expect to accomplish with all of their 'foreign relations' missions. People only responded to violence. They needed a show of force. Not that any of them had the bullocks to say so at his trial. He knew that the only way to stop that insurgent was to take him out, and that's what he'd been sent there to do, not to worry about any civilians that were too stupid to get out of the way. That wasn't his problem. It all worked out though because that's how Jim found him, discharged and pissed, and that was exactly what he was looking for. At first Sebastian hadn't been so sure about working with the man, but he soon found that they had a long list of similar interests.

He frowned inside his flimsy tent as he considered all of the good times they'd had. How they'd pulled off so many missions; manipulated so many people. They were practically running the country. Then those Holmes brothers had to get involved. They had to seduce him with clever puzzles and witty banter. Things Seb could never offer him. Jim had listened for a while; stayed away from those dumb pieces of shit, but eventually he was drawn back in. It seemed there was no avoiding the way things would turn out.

Henrietta offered some comfort, but not nearly as much as killing that pathetic boy would. He just knew that killing him was the only way he could ever feel close to whole again. Revenge was the only way he could ever live with what happened that day. The day he should have known better than to lower his weapon and take John Watson out of his sights. That was something he would never forgive himself for. This should have been handled long ago so that he could see to it that Jim's last wishes were managed appropriately. Jim was the only man he'd ever let tell him what to do and even now that he was dead it seemed impossible to refuse his demands.

With any luck his hard work would pay off and he could see to it that Jim's last wishes were granted. With any luck John Watson would be dead by the end of the month.


	24. Chapter 24

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 24**

**Not edited yet.**

"Have you heard anything from Mary lately?"

Bill inquired as they loaded into the Humvee. They had a relatively simple mission that day, some word of a new surge of resistance started springing up almost a month ago and they were going into town to investigate. Bill and John were on hand just in case, they weren't very concerned though. There had been similar rumors before and most of them had ended in nothing more than dead ends and days spent talking to paranoid locals. However they had a job to do and they were there to do it right. So John wasn't quite sure why Bill chose just then to ask such a question, but he supposed it was just as good a time as any considering their busy schedules.

"No, haven't talked to her since the day she saw me to the air port with Mrs. Hudson, so other than some letters, no… why? You think something's up?"

John asked as he shuffled in his seat to get more comfortable. Bill looked thoughtful for a moment as he did the same before continuing.

"Well, I mean, yeah. She talked to you during your leave, and I got a few letters from her the month after, but since then it's been squat. Like three months ago she just fell off the surface of the earth or something. I know she didn't leave for America yet, and even when she was over there she talked to us. What do you think is up?"

Bill questioned with a general sense of confusion and curiosity. John thought back for a moment and considered what could have caused such a change in Mary. They had worked past their misunderstanding on the couch long before he left, so it couldn't be that. Besides she had been speaking with them for almost a month after he returned. Bill was right to be confused; John was surprised he hadn't thought of it before. Perhaps it was just that people could forget you so easily when you went away to a place like Afghanistan. So far away and for so long, it was hard to keep contact or maintain friendships in such a manner. However Mary was close to them and had held up so far, it seemed odd that that would be the case.

"Maybe she just got busy. She's got a life besides us you know. Perhaps she's finally found some guy who's swept her off her feet."

John considered aloud, not sure of anything at that point. Mary could have ceased communication for any number of reasons. It was unlikely something too serious or Bill's parents would have informed them.

"You'd both like that wouldn't you? Well, I hope so, that would certainly be the best scenario. I just worry about her, you know?"

Bill explained simply as the Humvee started making its way across the desert floor.

"Yeah, she's like the third musketeer… You think she'll ever be over me?"

John asked with a bit of concern hinted in his tone. Bill looked him over for a beat and then cleared his throat.

"Not that you're not a great catch or anything, but yeah, I mean I'm sure she can find other guys than you. There are lots of us out there you know."

He joked with a slight punch to John's arm.

"I know that, but I've been saying that for years now. I just can't help but worry… what if it's like how I feel for Sherlock? I know I'll never get over him, I know that he's the only one I could ever be with. What if it's like that for her? Only she fell for someone who could never love her back like she deserves?"

John supplied anxiously as he averted his gaze to the floor. It wasn't often he mentioned his still burning affection for the detective out loud, and doing so left him feeling exposed. Like it was just a reminder to everyone how weak he really was, how pathetic it was he could never move on. He knew Bill would never criticize him for it, but it made him feel uncomfortable all the same.

"I never thought of it like that… would you have gotten over him if he never liked you back?"

Bill asked contemplatively as the Humvee shook from the uneven terrain. John already knew the answer to that. No, of course he wouldn't. He had been in love with the man for quite some time before anything became of them. In fact before the night at the pool he had been certain Sherlock thought nothing of sex or relationships, and that hadn't hindered his feelings for the man. No, if Sherlock hadn't wanted him it wouldn't have made much difference.

"No. That's why I'm afraid. I can't stand to think of putting Mary through that. I could never love her back when I'm still so consumed with being in love with a man who killed himself. I mean… she doesn't deserve that. She needs some smart guy who gets her corny jokes and doesn't care about that annoying habit she has of biting her nails."

John muses as the ran a hand through his hair.

"Yeah, that nail thing isn't so bad though. I used to date a girl who would like repeat everything you said to her when you asked her a question or were having a serious conversation. It was like hell on earth."

Bill said in a huff and they both laughed. For a few moments they were silent and watching as they made their way into the small town. Finally, Bill looked over to him just as they were mid way through.

"Why are you so concerned all of a sudden? It's not like we've ever talked about it before. Do you think her crush on you has something to do with her lack of letters?"

Bill asked as the men started piling out of the Humvee.

"You want the truth?"

"Well, yeah, why wouldn't I?"

"It's some pretty earth shattering news."

"Lay it on me."

"We had sex."

"You wha-GET DOWN!"

Bill shouted as he caught a glimpse of what was unmistakably a sniper in the reflection of the Humvee's side mirror. The man tackled John to the ground just in time for the bullet to miss his forehead and lodge directly into his left shoulder.

"Fuck!"

John cried out as the searing hot metal pierced his flesh and left him. The men around them were yelling 'sniper' as they ducked for cover. Bill pulled John up by the armpits and quickly dragged him to the other side of the Humvee for cover. The jarring his shoulder took was enough for him to let another grunt of pain escape before being set down on the ground.

"John, how bad is it, let me see mate."

Bill encouraged roughly as he tore at John's uniform. He didn't need to see the injury to know just how bad it was. The pain was overwhelming and the look on Bill's face said it all. Bill's stare only broke away from the wound when another man cried out from their group. There was a group of odd looking insurgents moving into the area and firing heavily on them. Bill looked back to John quickly and pulled out gauze to press to the gaping hole in John's shoulder.

"Remember to apply pressure and all that jazz; I've got to help the others. You can do this, just hold on!"

Bill ordered as he ran out and to the aid of one of their fallen brothers. John held tight to the cloth that was rapidly changing from white to red as his blood seeped out. The pain was shooting down his arm and he wondered how many patients he'd treated with similar injuries, he felt a sudden connection to them. Just out of the corner of his eye he could see the fire fight taking place. He desperately wished he could be along side Bill, helping him treat all of the soldiers. It seemed three others had been injured since the onslaught began and Bill was doing his best to treat them. John noticed two insurgents break free from the blanket of bullets to come over to his side and look him up and down. He reached for his gun but they both raised their weapons to his head. For a moment all he could think was 'finally, this is how it ends. Oh god, please, let it end' as he stared up into the muzzles of their guns.

But as they readied themselves to fire, one prevailing thought erupted to the forefront of his mind. He thought about how devastating it had been to loose Sherlock, how his death might affect his friends the same way. Bill and Mary, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Bill's parents, even his sister. He wasn't sure he was ready to let the people, who had stood by him, loved him, suffer through that same pain. So when he saw the two men above him become distracted by a loud cry from one of their men he seized the opportunity. With the speed that only comes from months of training John grabbed his gun and shot at the two men. One in the eye and the other in the neck. Pretty good considering his injury, which was becoming more and more of a problem. Even with the two insurgents down blood loss was a very real threat, one that could kill him just as easily.

His vision was beginning to blur around the edges as the loss of blood took its toll. Bill must have seen his arm begin to sag as it struggled to continue applying pressure because he could just barely make out his yelling over the battle raging on next to him. He tried to turn his head, tell his friend that it was going to be ok, but he found that his head was too heavy. As was the rest of his body he realized as he slumped against the Humvee. Bill wouldn't stop yelling, and the bullets hadn't stopped whizzing by, but John still couldn't help but feel himself drifting to sleep. In the back of his mind the doctor part of him knew this was bad, knew he had to stay awake, but he just couldn't. He managed to turn his head so he could see Bill, he wasn't sure what was going to happen, but if these were his last moments he wanted to at least try and spend them with his best friend.

Bill was struggling to get closer, but the insurgents were growing desperate and shooting far more frequently. To try and cross that now would be insane. The sniper was shooting people down, and he seemed to be doing it without regard to which side they were on. Eventually whoever it was must have given up after one last shot which landed right near John and then left. The insurgents battled on and with the sniper gone it seemed Bill had decided it was safe enough to cross and bring himself back to John. Which seemed like a horrible idea to the blonde lying in a pool of blood and sand, even in his state of mind he knew Bill should stay put. He couldn't see the other men who had been injured, but surely they needed his help. What good would it be if Bill got himself killed?

John struggled to tell Bill that himself but the words never came. His throat was hot and tight and it was becoming increasingly hard to keep himself awake. With that in mind he looked down to his wound for a moment to observe the steady stream of blood flowing from it. He wondered if he should laugh at the irony that he had been killed in action just in time to realize how bad of an idea that was. Suddenly he heard a sharp cry and he turned to see that Bill had been shot in the leg as he proceeded to hurry over to John's side. John tried to tell him what an idiot he had been to do that¸ how there were other men that needed him, how he had two dads at home that needed to see their son return home in one piece. However all that came out was a sort of gurgling noise that he was sure Bill would laugh at him for later, but right now he looked terrified.

"Listen to me John; you're going to make it out of here ok? They've got them on the run, there's only four left now. We're going to take care of them and then we're going back to base, ok? You just have to stay with me until then."

Bill explained frantically as he picked up the dripping gauze and returned it to the wound that was no longer hurting the blonde. John tried to say he was trying and that it was hard, that he'd lost too much blood, but he couldn't. Bill looked wrecked now and John wanted to lift his hand up, reassure him in some way, but there was an undeniable pull that was bringing him closer to unconsciousness.

"Try to say something, anything! Come on, I know you can, I know you can survive this. You can't give up; you can't give up on me!"

Bill was crying very real tears now as he broke open his medical kit and began trying to extract the bullet. John was surprised when he couldn't feel a thing.

"I'm going to get this bloody bullet out of you, and I'm going to stitch you up, and you're going to be just fine! Ok? Listen to me; you're going to be fine!"

The shooting had stopped now and it sounded like they were taking some of the insurgent's prisoner, probably for questioning. Bill didn't seem to notice that though, he had finally extracted the bullet and was attempting to stitch him up. He watched with detached interest as the needle poked in and out of his skin before his eye lids began to sink closed. Suddenly he was being shaken awake, they were inside the Humvee and Bill was holding onto him for dear life as they sped back to base. His friend was muttering under his breath about promises and friendship as tears streamed down his cheeks and plopped onto John's. Bill noticed John's blue eyes studying his own brown ones and gave a weak chuckle.

"Hang in there you bastard. I didn't ship myself out here so that you could die in some blasted Humvee."

He said roughly as he patted the top of John's head. John managed to smile back just barely before another wave of exhaustion started overtaking him. Bill continued talking to him, telling him how he would be fine once they got him in the hospital, and John tried to focus on the sound of his friend's panicked voice. He found that he was too tired to concentrate and let the group of voices chiming in the Humvee come together in some sort of sad melody. He listened as all the men tried talking to the injured; one of them was gripping tightly to one of the dead ones and speaking in tones much like Bill's. Some of the men were trying to keep another one of the injured awake by making him list random facts such as the date.

As John watched the darkness creep into his vision again he considered the question. He couldn't recall much, but he knew it was a Thursday. From what he understood it wasn't the first Thursday he'd felt like he was going to die, but that didn't matter much now. Now he was just trying to take solace in the fact that he had his closest friend near him and that despite how cold he was very comfortable. So comfortable in fact, that he slipped unconscious once again without any further thought on the matter.


	25. Chapter 25

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 25**

**Not edited and my head feels like exploding! How is it that I manage to catch every cold my little sister brings home? How? Four year olds are walking germ factories I tell you.**

There was once a time that if you asked Sherlock Holmes if it was possible for the world to stop spinning, for all of time and space to come to a complete and utter stand still, he would have either told you flat out that you were crazy or assumed you were in need of a particular orange blanket. However on a rather rainy day in France Sherlock answered what was probably his brother's thirty first attempt to contact him with his usual air of annoying petulance. It was a Friday as he recalled and it had been five months since he'd had his heart broken, since he knew what a major mistake he had made and he realized that he was going to be numb to the rest of the world as he had once been before John's arrival. What he didn't know was that the phone call he was about to take on that rainy Friday would most definitely evoke deep emotions, emotions he had thought were long gone, emotions so deep in fact that they would stop the world from spinning and bring all of time and space to a stand still.

His worst nightmare had come true, John had been shot, and the worst part was it was his fault. He left to give John a new life, one free of Sherlock, didn't offer him the same protection as he received. Now John had been tracked down by Moran, who somehow had managed to convince Mycroft's entire department that he had committed suicide almost a year ago. Mycroft said that his men had just missed Moran after some late night searching through the Afghani desert. John was at an army hospital and had received a bullet wound to the shoulder that had almost caused him to bleed out during the fight. He was lucky enough that Bill had been there to save him (along with several others) and he got a leg wound in the process. At least someone was able to keep their promises.

Mycroft told him how _lucky_ John was to have walked away with that. How Moran was the greatest marksman in Britain, that John should be dead. Obviously Sherlock took the news poorly. So poorly in fact the new flat he was staying in took a rather brutal beating after he abruptly hung up the phone. It was just such a hateful thing to consider what had happened over the course of a year and a half. It was hateful to think that he had caused all of this, all because of what that stupid woman had said._ Mary_. Mary who had taken advantage of John's weakened state to work her way into bed with him (or in this case sofa). Mycroft managed to tell him a month later that the two of them had been seen leaving a near by pub and that John appeared quite inebriated. So John hadn't been in his right mind. More to the point, when he visited Mycroft and was confronted with the letters he confessed his ever lasting love for the suicidal detective.

Sherlock may have returned as soon as he had heard word of that if it weren't for two very important set backs. One: he had ignored his brother long enough that by the time the news reached him John had already returned to Afghanistan. To return then would be blasphemous, he couldn't have John be the last one to know, not when all of this was to do with John. Two: guilt. He had never felt much guilt before he met John, but ever since it was as though it consumed him. Doing ordinary experiments that got on the blonde's nerves had made him feel guilty, which he found completely absurd. This was a whole new level of guilt though, and it made facing the man a terrifying prospect.

What if John couldn't forgive him? The thought seemed a definite possibility in his mind. What he'd done had put John through hell, emotional and physical. There was no way that he could ever apologize enough, there would be no explanation good enough. John had been shot because of this, he'd had his entire life turned upside down, all because Sherlock had some moment of self doubt. Because he didn't think John could be happy with him. It was clear the soldier had set out to prove him wrong. So then it had all been for nothing, every pitiful sigh and evening spent in heart break was wasted. He cried bitterly at the thought and wondered how much blame he could lay on Mary. It was doubtful John would ever accept that was a proper excuse, but t might alleviate some of the guilt he felt.

After he finished ransacking his flat he managed to contact his brother once again. Which was surprisingly easy given their limited contact in order to maintain his assumed identity. Mycroft was quick to scold him on his manners and remind him just who was organizing the soldier's medical care once he was retrieved from the army base. Sherlock was silent for a moment as he considered everything he had come to realize in the past months and even in just the past hour and decided that it was necessary to ask just a few more favors of his brother.

"I am aware that you are seeing to John's medical care, I hope that you see to it that Bill is also looked after with just as much enthusiasm. We do owe him for saving John's life, if must have taken some particularly quick thinking considering how good of a shot Moran is."

Sherlock paused a moment as a cold shiver ran through his body. He once again noted just how close of a call it had been.

"I have to ask another favor of you though, a rather large one in fact. I need you to let me see those men who aided in Moran's attack, the ones who were taken hostage. Don't pretend there weren't any prisoners taken too, it was obvious from your tone. If anyone is going after Moran now, it's me. I will not allow him to make a second attempt."

Sherlock explained darkly as considered just what things he would like to do to the man who had tried to kill John.

"I will allow it; you're most likely the best man for the job; however I couldn't possibly explain this to mummy unless you promised me something in return."

Mycroft said in his silky voice that used to serve him so well in their childhood and had likely done so in his adult life as well.

"What is it? I suppose I do owe you some favor in return. Do you have some wretchedly boring case for me out in the middle of no where?"

Sherlock questioned sardonically with a snort. There was a brief pause in which neither man spoke before Mycroft cleared his throat.

"You must return to him once you are done. I could have it no other way; I will not have him weighing on my conscience."

Mycroft said plainly and Sherlock was honestly surprised. It was unlike his brother to be so affected by another's feelings. An odd sense of pride swelled up inside himself as he thought of John, the one man who could melt even the coldest of hearts.

"Of course brother, I wouldn't have it any other way."


	26. Chapter 26

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 26**

**Ok, so bovvy3222 pointed something out that I totally didn't notice from one of the earlier chapters. If you guys notice a spelling error, or some sort of plot hole or even just have some random question, don't hesitate to point it out or ask questions. I'm really grateful she noticed so I can go back and fix it so other people aren't confused by my awesome lack of editing prowess. **

If John had thought William was crazy before, then he didn't know _what_ to call him when he came bursting through the hospital door to throw himself at his injured son. There had been a lot of tears, a lot of yelling, and a lot of scolding. As far as William was concerned neither John nor Bill was allowed to leave his sights again. Not that it mattered much to John since there was no way he could return to Afghanistan with the tremor that had taken up in his hand. The bullet had managed to cause a good deal of nerve damage along with taking an awful lot of his blood and it was unlikely he could ever perform surgery again. He tried not to let the thought bother him, but he couldn't help but feel that he had just been starting to feel good again. Being in the army had given him something to do, something with meaning. Now he was just going to go back to his flat and mope about.

Before Bill and John were released and going through physical therapy, it became obvious that John had somehow managed to develop a limp as well. The therapist who came to visit both of them separately for an hour each had said it was psychosomatic. She told him that it was likely he felt guilty about Bill's injuries and there for his body had produced a limp in John's body to match the one Bill had received saving his life. John didn't want to talk about it, and rarely did. Which of course was very much to his therapist's disliking but that didn't change the fact that he didn't feel like talking about it. She insisted that he take to writing in his blog again if he wasn't going to speak to her, to give him some sort of outlet. He wasn't sure he'd be able to given how much of his blog had been dedicated to his life with Sherlock.

Their only visitors during their stay had been Bill's parents (who came daily, much to Bill's despair), Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson. Harriet made one short appearance, though it had been for money so John wasn't sure it counted as a visit. So by the time they were released it had been another month without contact from Mary. Not so much as a phone call to either of them. Although Mrs. Hudson said she'd received a call asking how they were. Which meant that she hadn't fallen off the earth or anything, but it just seemed even more odd that she hadn't talked to them directly for so long. However after John's eighth day back, and second day he managed to sleep in Sherlock and his old bed, he got a text from Mary asking to meet him at the Criterion coffee house. It was surprising to say the least and he called Bill right away to tell him. Apparently he'd been the only one to receive such a text and they both decided it might be best that John go alone given that she hadn't invited Bill and John and her had a sort of history now.

It was a nice day out when he was to go visit Mary and he decided that it would be a good day to take a walk. His limp was more manageable now that he was getting the hang of it, though Bill and him were still taking bets on who would loose theirs first, so a walk wasn't something to fret over so long as the distance wasn't too far. Walking through the city alone was odd to him; he'd done it many times before when Sherlock had gotten on his nerves but not much else. It was as though he was missing a limb, but he supposed it was something he was growing used to. Though walking through the city alone might be new, being without Sherlock wasn't. It was still painful to think about, but the pain was something he could live with now, it had just become another part of his life that he had to deal with.

When he reached the Criterion the first thing he noticed was that it was probably one of the most crowded coffee shops in all of London. He tried pushing his way to the line with little success and was close to giving up when he felt a hand shoot out and tug on his sleeve. His gut reaction was to turn and face the invisible and possible threat with aggression. Luckily he cooled his response quickly when he realized that the person pulling on his arm was not in fact an assailant, but his old friend Mike Stamford.

"Mike? What… what in god's name are you doing in London?"

John practically shouted in shock. It had been over a year since he'd talked to Mike, and even longer since he'd seen him. The last he had heard him and Sarah were attending some medical school closer to their home town.

"Well, I got a position at Bart's. It was supposed to be a surprise but, well, you'd already gone off with the army and all… to be honest I wasn't sure how to contact you since it was obvious you weren't going back on the blog."

Mike explained a bit awkwardly.

"Right, yeah, of course… how's Sarah by the way? I know you two went to uni together, you know where she's at right now?"

John asked with genuine curiosity as he searched the crowd for Mary.

"Ah, she's here too mate. She got herself a nice job at a surgery near by. Real nice, she's managed to work her way up the ranks rather quickly."

Mike informed as he steered the two of them into what John could only assume was the line.

"Well, good for her. Suppose I should be looking to do the same for myself soon. Not sure how keen Mycroft would be to me just lounging about while he pays the rent."

The soldier joked with a weak laugh and gave his left hand a squeeze. The large crowd was giving his PTSD a run for its money and his hand was trembling terribly.

"You know, you should talk to her about that. Last I heard they were hiring, you could probably get yourself a decent job there. Pretty sure it's only part time, but since you don't have a rent to make any way it should suit you just fine. I'll give her a call."

Mike offered with a big grin.

"That would be great, yeah; I'll have to talk to her."

John answered happily. It would be great to see Sarah again and probably would make for the most comfortable work environment he could have asked for.

"Why don't I give you our numbers, that way you can get in touch with either of us, eh? It'd be nice to be able to sit down and have a proper chat just the three of us, talk about old times and what not."

Mike mused as he grabbed a napkin off a near by table and proceeded to scribble down two phone numbers.

"Thanks Mike, this is wonderful."

John said as he accepted the napkin and folded it into his jacket pocket.

"I'll give you both a text in a bit so you can save my number as well."

He continued as he searched the crowd one more time and finally spotted Mary stuck in the vast sea of people near the door way.

"Oh! Sorry Mike, gotta run, the person I came here to see is stuck at the door."

John informed quickly as he began making his way through the crowd.

"Without any coffee? Alright then, I hope to hear from you soon!"

Mike called after him and John waved in acknowledgment as he drew closer to Mary.

"Mary!"

He yelled over the murmur of voices and her head snapped in his direction. She gave a weak smile and a wave and he waved back in response. It was hard to make in way through with a limp but eventually he got to Mary and pulled on her hand so he could lead the both of them out of there. It was far too crowded to have a proper conversation any way.

"God, far too many people, what do you say we head over to-"

John froze entirely as they exited the coffee shop and he looked down to see that Mary was undeniably pregnant.

"John?"

She questioned worriedly and took a step closer.

"You're… is that…?"

John stammered as he took in the sight of his Mary in maternity wear and sporting a very prominent bump.

"Yes I'm… well obviously I'm pregnant, but yes, he's yours."

She admitted timidly. John couldn't help but stand and stare in shock for a long time.


	27. Chapter 27

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 27**

**A long awaited chapter I'm sure…**

John took one last steadying breath as he looked across the table at Mary. After his initial moment of shock he'd luckily found enough sense to take them back to the flat. They hadn't said much other than the essential 'let's go back to my flat' however his silence spoke volumes. Most of it was surprise and confusion, not to mention a bit of anger. Obviously this had been why Mary hadn't contacted them, but honestly, he might have tried to be a bit more cautious if he knew he had a baby on the way. Jesus. A _baby_. His head was reeling with everything that meant. Mary looked scared and a bit confused herself, but John pushed that to the back of his mind and tried to focus on getting some well deserved answers.

"I'm not going to question whether it's mine or not, I trust you-"

"It's yours; I haven't slept with anyone since that night."

Mary interjected and then quickly quieted. John paused for a moment before continuing.

"Yes, well. I guess I've still got a lot of questions for you, the first being why did you stop talking to me and Bill? Why didn't you just tell us?"

John asked in a tone he hoped conveyed just how put out he was at the thought of Mary deciding he didn't need to know about this, or that she had to deal with it alone.

"Honestly… I didn't know what to say, or if there was any proper way of telling such huge news through a letter. I mean… this is sort of a thing you want to say face to face."

Mary explained timidly as she studied the marks on the table.

"It's also the sort of information someone might want to know when out in the middle of a bloody war zone… ok, I'm not trying to sound angry or harsh but this is a bit of a shock. I mean, Christ, a baby, and you didn't tell me. This is big, this is… this is life changing!"

John exasperated and ran a hand through his short blonde spikes.

"We need to go over a lot of things Mary, there are so many variables to raising a child and I mean there so much to plan… if I'd known sooner we could have done something, we could have had more time to talk to people, get prepared-"

"John I… well I honestly didn't think you'd want to keep it."

"Wait, what? Why wouldn't I? It's my… son, right? I mean, he's my son why wouldn't I want him?"

"It's a lot to ask of someone, raising a kid is a big responsibility and it's not as if you were planning on it."

"No, but he's here now and he's our responsibility. He might not have been planned but that's not his fault, we just need to work on making sure we're ready for him now."

"John… I'm not sure how to put this… _I'm_ not keeping him."

Just like that John Watson was stricken speechless for a whole minute as he stared at the brown haired woman across the table.

"What do you mean? It's a bit late for an abortion don't you think?"

He replied in an even tone as he observed the woman. He wasn't one to argue over a woman's right, but she was certainly far enough along that a heart beat was a sure thing and there was no debating that so long as their was a beating heart there was life.

"No, I don't mean like that. Of course not. If I was going to do that I would have when I first found out. It just didn't seem right… I didn't want to; I couldn't really, especially not alone. I meant that I've been talking to some adoption agencies. You would need to sign the papers as well, but I told them that it wasn't a sure thing until I spoke to you first."

Mary explained quietly as she cast her gaze to the ground.

"Mary… what do you mean?"

John questioned looking at her intently, willing her to give a quick response.

"I mean, I'm going to America John, I'm starting a career there. I mean… I'm not ready to have a kid yet. I'm giving you the choice to either raise him yourself or help me sign the papers so someone else can. I love kids, and some day I'd love to have a few, but not like this, not when I haven't even set up a good life for myself yet. He's yours too though, so if you're willing to handle the responsibility than by all means he's yours."  
Mary said quickly and then shut her mouth tightly, as though she were afraid of what John might say.

"Mary that's… that's fine it's your choice. I just… wow, I thought we'd have ended up raising him together."

John admitted with a bit of surprise. To be honest he had assumed that was the plan when he'd first thought of things that needed to be planned. However he now felt equal parts relieved and disappointed. It was sad to think that the child would have only one parent, he'd have hoped he could provide the perfect sort of nuclear family he'd always wished for as a child. Though he knew that he could never love Mary as much as he had Sherlock.

"No… I mean… you still love Sherlock, you probably always will. I wouldn't make you do something you didn't really want, not twice."

Mary confessed softly and studied her hands as the lay in her lap. John watched her for a moment before letting out a large sigh.

"Well, I respect that. Honestly though, adoption is a great option and all, but he's my son. I want him."

John said with feeling and Mary finally looked up to meet his eyes.

"Then of course you can."

She answered quietly and the two of them sat deep in thought for a long while. John considered just what he'd signed up for, all the work that came with raising a child. It would be hard, he had no illusions about that, but somehow it would be easier too. To know that there was someone else in this world he could care for again, on a level that would be deep enough to pull him out of the pit he'd fallen in. This boy was no accident, he was his miracle. No other man or woman could replace Sherlock, he knew that, but the love one had for their child was like no other. John was sure that this boy would not serve as a replacement of any sort, but as a whole new person in which John could devote himself to. He was filled with a sudden sense of joy that he hadn't felt in a long time.

"You know I sort of had a name in mind, if you wanted to hear it."

Mary said, breaking the silence. John looked over to her and gave a faint smile to indicate that he was listening.

"I was thinking, Hamish. It's a good name, and I know it was your grandfather's… you don't have to use it of course but I just thought that maybe-"

"It's perfect."

John interrupted and gave Mary a large smile, after a second of hesitation she smiled too.

"Hamish."

He repeated aloud and smiled even wider. Yes, Hamish would be a perfect name.


	28. Chapter 28

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 28**

**Edit this in a sec. Sorry if this seems out of the blue to anyone, but I've actually been planning it for a while…**

John remembered each visit he made with relative clarity and an average recollection of detail. Most of their friends reacted about the same: shock, confusion, and eventual elation. However each one had their own advice to give or two cents to throw in. Mrs. Hudson for example gave a rather lengthy lecture on the joys and responsibilities of raising a child, although she was also the most excited. In fact John was sure Hamish would have a well stocked wardrobe well into his thirties considering how many clothes the woman had already purchased. Not to mention she went ahead and started prepping her flat for when she would undoubtedly baby sit, which apparently would be quite often as she'd practically set up an entire nursery. Mycroft had offered to pay for a private daycare as well as the rent, but John wasn't sure Mrs. Hudson would allow it. The only one who even came close to matching Mrs. Hudson's enthusiasm was William who had begun taping himself reading bed time stories with his usual flare for the dramatic.

Greg may have been one of the happier ones as well, though it was more for John's sake rather than the actual baby. Clearly Lestrade still had concerns for John's mental state, but at least he seemed to think that he was doing better with the impending baby. Which was probably true since his limp was beginning to dissipate, and he really only needed the cane on bad days. John considered it a blessing because while his job at the surgery meant he spent most of his time at work behind a desk, it would be difficult to carry a baby while limping. Mrs. Hudson had been kind enough to point that out herself when subtly hinting at just how available she was to be on baby watch. John couldn't help but smile at the thought that his landlady was fast becoming a sort of surrogate grandmother.

Everyone seemed excited about the shocking prospect of John's new bundle of joy, even Sally and Anderson had offered congratulations (a bit timidly of course as John was slow to forgive for their part in Sherlock's suicide), however there was one person who was less than pleased. What shocked John the most was that of all the people who might for whatever reason not be fond of the idea, the person who was upset was Bill. His best friend and number one supporter, the one who had followed him into war, who had risked his life to save John's, who had even once stood on stage and sung horrible karaoke with him… was upset that John was having a baby. He didn't say it of course, not in so many words. But his face had said it all. Bill had known that John and Mary had slept together, John had confessed just before being shot, but they hadn't spoken of it since, so he wasn't nearly as shocked as the others. However he was surprised, but instead of then becoming happy, he seemed distant.

John had never liked the thought of one of his friends in pain, and was normally quick to try and fix the situation. This time was different though, John didn't know what was wrong or how to even begin to fix it. How was it that Bill was upset at the thought of John having a baby? What could that possibly do to affect Bill in a negative way? He hadn't the foggiest. That didn't mean he wasn't determined to find out though. Which is why after a quick conversation with a very worried William, John found himself searching all of Bill's favorite pubs in search of the man.

It didn't take long given Bill's short list of preferences, and that Mary had offered to drive him rather than having to hail some cabby or rely on public transport. He spotted the man almost immediately and Mary waited by the front door as John approached. From what he'd heard from William, Bill had been in a mood ever since the news broke and this was one of several nights he'd taken to the pubs. He'd always come back sloshed and worse for wear, not to mention slurring cusses before passing out on the couch. So John made his way over cautiously to where Bill was seated by himself at a near by table.

"Bill?"

John questioned carefully as the man took a large swig of beer. Bill looked up at him through red rimmed eyes and gave a weak smile.

"Oh-_hic_-hello John."

Bill slurred grimly before taking another drink from his pint. John shot a concerned look back to Mary who was standing anxiously by the exit. He took a seat and scooted closer to his friend before he spoke again.

"Hey, you know your dads are pretty worried about you. So are Mary and I… you want to tell me what's going on?"

John wasn't sure just how the soldier was doing, but it wasn't like the blonde to avoid asking the pressing questions. So he barreled onward and just hoped that Bill wouldn't react too poorly to his forwardness.

"Isn't it obvious? Weren't you the one who spent all that time with the famous consulting dick? I thought you'd be able to_ deduce_ it."

Bill sneered and pushed his now empty pint to the side. John stared for a moment in shock; Bill had never been so crass about Sherlock or their relationship, not even when the man was alive. It was unlike his friend to be so cruel and he looked back at Mary to see that she had at least heard the most of it over the noise in the pub and was equally confused.

"Guess not… maybe you could just explain it to me, I want to help. Whatever it is I've got your back mate."

John encouraged lightly. Bill looked up from under half lidded eyes and smiled harshly.

"That's one of the reasons she likes you, you know. You're such a good _friend_, you're so _kind_, and you're so _smart_. I knew her first you know. Then you came along and noticed her _haircut_ and all of a sudden you're _god_ or something. I _noticed _you know. I _always_ notice. I just… I never said anything cos, cos… well you've seen her!"

Bill rambled loudly and John was more than a bit confused. When he looked back to Mary she seemed more shocked, no hint of confusion, she obviously knew who he was talking about. It only took the blonde a moment before he too came to the surprising revelation.

"You mean Mary? Bill, is this about me and Mary? You know we're not an item, it was just a… a mix up, I would never-especially if I'd known-"

"I know you would _never_! I know you wouldn't dream of touching her in your right mind, or date her, or marry her, or raise a baby with her!"

Bill interjected furiously as he slammed the table in protest. John tried to wrap his mind around just what was upsetting his friend if not a bout of jealousy. He was flustered and looked back to see Mary was just as confused as he was.

"I don't understand, what's wrong? You know that I love Mary, but just as a friend, we're just friends. Since when has that been an issue for you?"

John questioned nervously as his friend appeared to become more infuriated.

"It's been an issue since the moment I knew you slept with her! But I pushed it back, pushed away just like all those other times Mary spent talking to me about how badly she loved you, _you_, not me. You, the one who could never see her for how great she is, how pretty her eyes look when she gets excited about some stupid shit like that book she reads! You don't see how great she is, but I do, and you're the only one who can make her happy. But you won't, you won't do it, but you'll sleep with her. You'll fuck her on your sofa and get her pregnant, but you could never realize how wonderful of a mother Mary would be! I would, I would thank god every day I got to spend with her, but she doesn't want me, she wants _you_!"

Bill was practically screaming and everyone in the pub was definitely looking now, including the manager who was eyeing them carefully.

"Let's take a deep breath mate… we can talk about this outside, ok?"

John offered as he stood up slowly and observed his friend.

"You can go outside, I don't want to go back home so my dad can stare at me like I'm a charity case."

Bill snorted as he slumped farther into his chair in protest.

"Come on Bill, you can come back to my place if you want. We'll get you cleaned and sobered up and in the morning we can all sort this out."

John continued cautiously and Bill's head snapped up at the word 'all' and he looked over at the door and went white in the face when he saw Mary there.

"Fuck, fuck ,fuck! She heard me didn't she? She heard every last damn thing."

He muttered bitterly into his hands as he cradled his head on the table. After a moment they both looked over to see Mary nod shyly and Bill let out a large groan.

"Afraid so… come on, we'll go back to my place and get this all sorted out."

John said and offered a hand to help his friend up.

"I'd rather just shoot myself now."

Bill moaned as his fingers gripped at patches of his hair.

"We'll have none of that. It'll be fine, come on."

Bill reluctantly let John lead him back to Mary's car and the three of them sat in silence as they made their way back to Baker Street.


	29. Chapter 29

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 29**

**This would have been up sooner but I had a row in the shop with the chip-N-pin machine! Lol, not really, but I did have problems while shopping for my sister's party. I had to make three separate trips to appease my mother! Apparently certain things are allowed to be off brand while others are not. Whatever, enjoy the chapter!**

John walked silently along the path as he observed a few birds chirping merrily above in a near by tree. Not too long ago he would have been aggravated with their happy presence in this place, but now they were friendly company. His visits were not so filled with bitterness now, not like when he'd first been able to bring himself. John had a lot on his mind, a lot he hadn't had a chance to say before. Sherlock may have known it, but John would have felt so much better if he could have told him, maybe it would have made a difference. There was no use in thinking that now though. After he'd said what he needed to his visits became much less bitter and he set about filling Sherlock in on everything he'd missed.

When John reached the black marble he ran his fingers along the smooth top and smiled faintly. At some point he'd decided the visits would be weekly and so he set about getting flowers for each visit to replace the wilting ones from the week before, so he switched the flowers out, moving the old ones off to the side for the time being. Then he sat himself so that he was staring at his reflection face to face. A breeze swept through the graveyard and ruffled John's hair just slightly as he stared at the stone for a moment. Finally he looked down at his hands and drew a deep breath.

"Hi Sherlock. I finally packed away the last of your experiments. I turned my old room into the nursery; you should see it, filled to the brim with stuffed animals. Apparently Molly used to collect them and she decided to donate."

John explained quietly and smiled at the memory of him and Molly carrying all the toys into the room and all the times he had to run back down to retrieve ones that had fallen.

"You would have laughed at how ridiculous we looked. It was quite a sight, the two of us with all of those things. Not to mention the gigantic bear I had to wrestle with. Hamish will be able to use that as a bed if he likes well into his teens… I think it was bigger than me!"

John chuckled and then looked back up at the polished marble.

"Well, I'm sure you want to hear how we sorted things out with Bill, eh?"

The soldier asked the grave before recalling where he'd left off in the story.

* * *

_Bill had passed out on the sofa within seconds of lying down and John made a call to William about where he was. They didn't say anything about his outburst though; it was unlikely Bill would want anyone to know that, but especially not his dad. Mary seemed a bit shocked by the night's events and John couldn't say he blamed her. It was a surprise to him as well. Bill had never said anything, in all the years they'd been friends you think he would have mentioned it. The soldier supposed that perhaps because of the feelings Mary was harboring, Bill had kept it to himself. Whatever the reason though Mary and John decided not to bother staying up all night discussing it, instead John sent the woman to sleep in his bed while he chose to sleep on his chair. It was comfortable enough (though he had been certain he'd wake up with a crick in his neck) and it was the perfect place to keep an eye on Bill._

_When morning finally came and John's neck was in fact in possession of a crick and Bill was already awake and shielding his eyes from the sun. The blonde worked quickly to grab his friend some pain killers and a glass of water. He handed both to the man and then returned to the kitchen to set about making tea. Mary wasn't up yet but he didn't think it would take her long, she'd always been an early riser and it was already ten in the morning. So he poured three cups worth of water into the kettle and waited. Bill was sitting up and messaging his temples from what he could see and he wondered just what the man remembered. His friend had obviously been properly sloshed but he had no idea just how bad it was or how much he had had to drink._

_"John."_

_Bill called from his spot on the sofa. John sucked in a deep breath and prepared himself for an undoubtedly awkward conversation. As he made his way over his friend looked up at him warily and straightened himself out._

_"Kettle's on if you want some tea. I can make us some eggs and toast as well if you like… are you feeling alright?"_

_John said uneasily, given how violently Bill had reacted the night before he didn't want to upset him further._

_"I'm… I'm fine, just embarrassed. That did happen last night, right? No chance it was just a horrible nightmare?"_

_Bill inquired sheepishly and John gave a solemn shake of his head to indicate it had been all very real._

_"I thought so… I'm sorry by the way; I was raving mad and pissed out of my mind by the time you got there. I didn't mean to say those things; you know you're my best mate. It's just… I love her you know? I just want her to be happy."_

_Bill confessed and hung his head in surrender. John reached forward to rest a supportive hand on his friend's shoulder._

_"No hard feelings then. Besides, some of it I might have deserved. I had no idea you felt that way about her."_

_John replied and Bill looked up to give a weak smile._

_"Some of us aren't as transparent as you John. I keep my heart well away from my sleeve thanks, well… that is before last night."_

_The man said before trailing off into a light groan._

_"It happens to the best of us mate, at least now we all know where we stand… by the way, about what you said last night… you know Mary chose to leave for America. She decided it was best not to stay together, not me. I would have married her… however I think she made the right choice, we would have regretted it later in life I'm sure. Besides, I'd hate to think of you being forced into the role as best man at that wedding."_

_John explained with a bit of a grimace. He couldn't imagine putting Bill through that knowing what he knew now, he shuddered at the thought._

_"Well I guess… I'm glad to hear it was mutual rather than, well… I guess I'm just glad."_

_Bill concluded with a tight smile and patted the hand John still had placed on his shoulder._

_"As am I."_

_Mary chimed in hesitantly_ _from the hall as she entered the room._

* * *

"You remember how I said breakfast with Mary that morning had been the most awkward one I'd ever had? Well this was the second. I was the only one doing the majority of the talking, and even that wasn't much."

John explained with a heavy sigh, Sherlock wouldn't have even noticed the tension. Those sorts of things always went right over his head.

"Well, anyway, they got together at some point after that to hash it all out. It had to have gone well whatever they said, it's been over a month now and they haven't changed their minds about going to America together yet. I'm sure they'll take the place by storm. Or at least Bill will and Mary won't be far behind."

John joked and pictured the two of them together in America. Bill being his brilliantly confident self and Mary the embodiment of timid. They certainly made for an odd couple, but it worked somehow.

"You know, it's going to be so strange not having either of them around. Especially with this baby on the way… any day now. It's sad they won't be here, though I suppose they'll visit. They'll have to; William would find a way to have them extradited otherwise. You should have seen him when David said they weren't going to move there as well. The man had an emotional melt down. Lots of tears. You would have found the whole spectacle quite irritating I'm sure, Bill sure did."

John told with a hint of sadness in his voice. He hadn't said it in so many words, but he had hoped that at least Bill would be around to help him with Hamish. Not that he was in short supply of helpers. Mrs. Hudson of course was primed and ready, Bill's parents were excited as well, and Mycroft was showing some interest. It wasn't the same though, not like having your best friend there to talk with, to lean on for moral support. He shook the invasive thoughts from his mind in order to focus on more pressing matters.

"Your brother stopped by the other day. He sounded strange, like he was hiding something. But then, I suppose he's the type of man who's always hiding things. He wanted to know about my plans for raising Hamish and what Mary's role in the boy's life would be. Needless to say I was a bit surprised he even cared to know but I suppose without you around he needs someone else to pester. I explained how we decided I would have sole custody and that Mary would most likely be called an aunt of sorts. I'm not sure if I'll tell Hamish what happened until he's old enough to understand… any way he seemed pleased by that. Said I would make a good dad and mentioned something about a school that you and Mycroft attended as children. He wants Hamish to go. I'll have to think about it, I'm not sure what they serve in the food there that they produced two of the strangest men I've ever met."

John explained with a huff of laughter as he finished. He smiled at the tombstone and wondered why it was he hadn't come to the grave site sooner. Of course he knew the answer to that, but he might have come sooner if he'd known how good it felt even to pretend they could talk again. It was probably better therapy than writing in his blog, no matter what that therapist had said. He didn't limp nearly as much, almost never now.

"Any way, he also commented on how all of your things had finally been packed away. I couldn't tell if he was happy I'd finally been able to bring myself to do it, or sad to see your things go. Don't worry though, I'll tell you as I told him. They were packed away for space in the upstairs room and the sake of the baby's safety through out the flat, but I didn't throw them away. I don't think I could ever do that. They're in our closet mostly; some are being stored in that basement flat Mrs. Hudson can't seem to rent. She said it's fine to keep them there as long as no one comes along to rent the place. If that ever happens I'll probably just pile the boxes in my room. Not that she'd like that, if she had her way most of it would be donated or in the bin by now. She thinks its clutter, and maybe she's right, but it's your clutter. I couldn't part with a single tube sock if a tried."

John said in a tone that was far too desolate for his liking. He didn't like to be upset in front of Sherlock; this was their time to pretend. John's time to imagine that Sherlock was actually listening, dissecting John as he spoke and making deductions about whatever he could. That would never happen again, he knew that, he had no delusions. But it put his mind at ease to think that there was still some way they could communicate, even if it seemed entirely one sided. Perhaps Sherlock was trying to do the same from the other side.

"Alright, well I'll leave you with the knowledge that your sock index as I'm sure you've deduced has there for stayed in place. I have to be off now; apparently I have to buy some swing contraption that helps rock baby's to sleep for you. According to David it's essential."

John informed lightly as he stood up from the dirt and brushed off his pants. He picked up the old flowers and placed his hand on top of the marble that bore Sherlock's name. For a moment he stood there in silence, as he did every week, willing Sherlock to feel him wherever he was. He hoped somehow that whatever Sherlock was or wherever he was he at least knew that John loved him, still loved, and would always love him. The soldier released his grip after sometime and smiled down at the cold stone. He wasn't overly surprised to watch a single tear drop onto it, crying was something he'd done quite a lot of there.

"I'll bring Hamish here when I'm able, he might get here before our next visit for all I know. In which case it may be a while before I get back to you. My paternity leave starts next Monday so hopefully it's not before then but who knows. Mary's so big now I'm surprised she hasn't already gone into labor. Not that I'd tell her that of course, I think Bill would ring my throat… goodbye, Sherlock."

With that John patted the stone one last time before making his trek back to the main road. There was still work to be done.


	30. Chapter 30

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 30**

**PLEASE READ!**

**So I was going over the timeline and I realized that I made a major cock up! So when John went back for the second time to Afghanistan it was July, he comes back in December. He finds out about Mary/ tells every one in January. This is also while all that shit is going down with Bill. So… given all of that, Mary is 7 months along when she sees John. So when John's at the grave it's March. Which in my town means its spring so John's chirping bird and nice sunny day scenario makes sense. Except I forgot its Britain so I'm guessing it's still snowy over there. Also it should have been a horrible day to go meet Mary at the Criterion. Too late now, hope you'll excuse the cock up! Oh, and Hamish's birthday is going to be March sixth because shit worked out that way and I want him to have my birthday. **

**Thank you, that is all.**

It had been months now, a whole year in fact, and he still hadn't caught Sebastian. Sherlock hadn't given the man nearly enough credit; he was indeed a skilled man. There was no wonder as to how Moriarty could take a liking to such a creature. He was cunning, and always ten steps ahead it seemed. During the entire year he'd only seen him a total of six times on camera and once in person, though much too far away to do anything about it. His brother had kept in touch the first month, but it grated on his nerves, he cut out all contact completely at the closing of the first month. Not that Mycroft didn't try, he did. Sherlock just ignored him and sent the occasional status report to calm his mind. After the close call he'd had near the end of February the reports were fewer and father between.

Sherlock had been so confident he was right on the man's tail that he'd walked himself into a trap. The next month was spent in some underground bunker being beaten to a bloody pulp. He'd only managed to escape when a team of Mycroft's men located him where he been hauled away in South America. Mycroft had tried to see him but Sherlock refused and reminded the politician that he required some semblance of peace in order to keep his mind functioning. Mycroft was almost relentless in his need to discuss certain 'family matters' but he wasn't having any of it, he had a job to do and he needed to focus. He spent the next month in recovery and managed to figure out the locations and identities of a few of Moran's men. Mycroft's men detained and questioned them but most of what they said held little relevance. Seb didn't leave loose ends.

Once he was free to move about again it wasn't long before he was back on the man's trail. Three months later he cursed himself for being so dim and found himself dangerously close to London when he caught wind of Moran's newest scheme to kill John. How could he have been so blind? The clues had all been right there in front of him, John's life shouldn't have relied on some last second information obtained by a captured low ranking lackey. He raced to intercept the bomb being delivered to John's doorstep. The one Mrs. Hudson would likely sign for and leave sitting on their coffee table. That's where John would find it, and just after he sat himself down with a nice warm cuppa he would open the package and be blown to hell.

The thought made Sherlock sick. In fact it quite literally made him sick. After he retrieved the package and deactivated it he vomited in the closest thing he could find which happened to be a potted plant. The sheer though of how close he'd come to loosing John was so overwhelming he shook with the intensity. He'd gone two weeks without eating or sleeping to ensure that package never get to Baker Street, which meant that by the end he was mentally and physically exhausted.

He spent a week in bed doing little but sleep and dream. He dreamt of John and how he was doing. Sherlock hoped he was doing better, that he wasn't so sad all the time, he couldn't stand the though. He hoped that John was working as a doctor somewhere, and having tea with Mrs. Hudson, and going to the pub with Bill. All he wanted was for John's happiness, which was all he'd ever wanted. Only now he realized that John may have relied on Sherlock for his happiness just as much as Sherlock relied on John. So he also dreamt of his return, and he hoped that John wouldn't be too angry. He shuddered at the thought of John being so bitter that he threw him out without any explanation. Or perhaps worse, that he would do so even knowing what Sherlock had done, or why he had gone down this path in the first place. But he tried to dream of happier thoughts, one in which they were reunited and just so elated to be together again.

Even once he was back to the hunt he would every so often allow himself a moment to imagine John. He would picture him as he once knew him: young, innocent, brave, kind, and confident. Then he would think of John as he had been when he left: matured, responsible, brave, caring, understanding, and loving. It was nice to imagine John in all his forms, and to revisit all the times Sherlock had been able to view all sides of the man he loved. One thought he often found himself caught up with was of John's skin and how it felt. It had been so long since he'd seen the man let alone touched him. He longed to draw John close and hold his firm body against his own.

Though these were flights of fancy and not often dallied in. They were rewards for when he'd made a crack in the case or come closer to catching Moran. He spent every other moment dedicated to finding the man that had attempted to take the one thing in this world Sherlock would risk everything for. That is how he went about it for months and still he would barely an He spent every other moment dedicated to finding the man that had attempted to take the one thing in this world Sherlock would risk everything for. That is how he went about it for months and still he was barely any closer tan when he started. At least not as far as he could tell.

Sherlock was on to something though, he'd heard murmurs of a plot to hide Moran away in Russia for sometime so he could regroup and make a new plan to end John's life. The detective had a few ideas as to where this could be, but he didn't want to get his hopes up no matter what the case. He'd felt so close he could taste the bastard before, only to find out later how hopelessly behind he was. This time felt different though, but none the less he carried on as though it weren't and planned his own trip to Russia. If he was lucky he could end the whole thing in just a few months time and then return home to Baker Street where John was waiting. And despite comments Sherlock may have made in the past in regards to the subject, the only thing he wanted was for things to go back to normal.


	31. Chapter 31

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 31**

"Three years, it took almost three years."

John whispered. He felt an unfamiliar swirl of emotions as he considered it. There was no way he could have pictured himself where he was at the beginning of it. In fact he'd assumed he'd be dead by now. Despite how miserable it had been, despite how horrible and tragic Sherlock's death had been, it had brought forth this perfect moment.

* * *

The party was fast approaching and John felt anything but prepared. He had all the food made, all of the decorations in place, and all of his presents wrapped. For whatever reason though his mind just would not let him relax. He was fretting over the smallest of details and becoming almost frantic about the whole event. In fact the day before he'd had a near melt down when the camera battery was almost dead and he couldn't find the charger. Mrs. Hudson came to the rescue of course and tried to calm him with a cup of tea.

Now it was only a matter of minutes before the party and Hamish had managed to cover the entire living room floor with all of his toys while John finished setting out the snacks. He was rushing to clean the mess (much to Hamish's delight it seemed as he laughed at his panicked father) when Mrs. Hudson led the first guests into the house. Shrieking was a near possibility as John half-hazardly organized the toys. David and William were the first ones on the scene and following close behind were Bill and Mary. They all carried in their gifts and smiled largely at the blue eyed birthday boy giggling on the floor.

Once their gifts were set aside William didn't hesitate to swoop forward and scoop the baby up off of the floor. He was always enthusiastic to see Hamish, so it came to no surprise to anyone. Though Mrs. Hudson seemed a bit jealous he got there first, which was only a bit ridiculous considering how often she saw him (which was quite literally everyday). She was smiling however and really the only one who seemed even remotely put out was Bill which was probably more to do with his dad's behavior than the actual capture of the child.

"Who's a cutie? You are! Such a big boy and just look at those eyes! You look just like your daddy; you're big and strong like him too!"

William rambled in a high pitched voice that seemed to be reserved for people under the age of four. David was right beside him making funny faces at the baby and Bill looked as though he were stuck between the decision of whether he should vomit or strangle the two of them. Mary seemed pleasantly amused by the whole ordeal and Mrs. Hudson had just started to join in when John made his way over to his two friends.

"Glad you guys could make it, I know you've been busy and all, and given the travel expenses I didn't really expect you to be able to make it."

John confessed to the pair and gave a weak smile. He was exhausted after spending the last week half out of his mind over this party and it was catching up to him. Mary smiled as Bill wrapped his arm around her and broke his glare from William to smile appreciatively at John.

"We wouldn't miss it for the world mate. Besides, I'd give anything to see you this worked up, it's brilliant! I've _personally_ seen you perform surgery on men seconds from death and not break a sweat, but you have to plan your kid's first birthday and suddenly you're in pieces!"

Bill laughed and Mary gave him a light swat.

"Don't listen to him, I think it's sweet. You've turned out to be an excellent father."

Mary insisted and patted his shoulder fondly.

"Better than mine anyway, look at them… you know on the way here William asked for a detailed description of our sex life?"

Bill said in a harsh tone that conveyed just how annoyed and embarrassing he'd found the event. Mary blushed deeply and looked to the floor for a moment; apparently she had been adequately scarred as well. John looked over to the man holding his child and kissing each of his cheeks with enthusiasm causing the baby to giggle hysterically. William was certainly a character, but despite his oddities and what Bill said, John was sure he was a good dad. He cared for Bill in a way that John had never known in his youth. It wasn't something he liked to dwell on often, but it was becoming a more common thought now that he was a father himself.

John looked at Hamish and thought about his own childhood, his own father. It had been nothing short of a miracle that he survived. There had been no bed time stories or even the promise of another tomorrow, yet John had managed to get here. Some how he had managed to make it to adulthood with a medical degree, a loving family, and his own adoring son. The way Hamish clung to him made his chest go tight and he wondered what had happened to his dad to make him what he became. John worried sometimes that he might become his father, that he might continue some cruel circle of abuse and lash out at his son. But when he looked into those eyes, and saw nothing but love and the purest form of trust he'd ever known, there was no way he could even lift a pinky to him. His youth had been filled with moments where apparently his father felt differently, and it had made John loose some of his childish innocence, and even made him go a bit cold.

When he looked around the room he couldn't help but realize how lucky he had been. He'd run away to a cold and often unforgiving city. Yet he'd managed to find a home, a family. He even met the love of his life. John had gone through school free of charge and had a free place to live as well. After everything he'd been through he managed to come out better than most. Now he had this beautiful bundle of joy and all he could think was that he wanted to give Hamish the same. He wanted to protect Hamish from all of the world's evils, to watch him fall in love, to see him learn, to make friends, to find purpose in life, to be happy… and he hoped that he had somehow learned along the way how to make that happen.

However it wasn't the time to think about such things so John simply chuckled at his friend's misfortune and waved at his little boy. There was a tap at the door as Mike and Sarah entered the flat. They set their gifts down with the rest and walked closer to greet John.

"Hey, glad you guys could make it."

John said warmly as Sarah came over to give him a hug. Mike shook his hand and the two of them waved at Bill and Mary.

"Well, yeah, wasn't too much trouble. It's a Saturday so I don't have any shifts at the surgery."

Sarah admitted happily and looked to Mike who gave a similar response.

"So where's the little bugger?"

Mike asked as he gave a quick glance around the room. John looked around to see that the three crazed pseudo grandparents were hoarding the baby in the living room corner, apparently playing some strange form of peek-a-boo.

"In the middle of that three man circus it would seem."

John joked as he motioned towards the lot of them. The group gave a chuckle and Sarah excused herself to go have a look at the little boy. Mike was telling them some funny story about a patient he'd had at Bart's when Molly walked in along side Lestrade.

"Sorry we're late; we were in the middle of a homicide case."

Molly informed as she set a large stuffed animal with a bow on its head along with the rest of the gifts.

"Not in front of the baby."

Mrs. Hudson chided and she'd covered Hamish's ears as though he'd have any idea what a homicide was.

"Sorry!"

Molly corrected with a blush.

"Oh, well. At least you guys made it; it's good to see you."

John called out merrily. He hadn't seen either of them in a while and it was nice to do so again. There had been some odd string of murders going on, which was what had held them up it seemed, so they'd been rather occupied. The killer was brutal and Lestrade felt hard pressed to find the bastard.

"By the way, Mycroft is going to be on his way in any minute. I saw his men casing the house, probably checking to make sure none of us have a bomb on or something."

Lestrade joked as he walked over and grabbed a chip off the table. Bill laughed next to him just as he'd swallowed down the last of the cookies. As if on cue Mycroft strolled in and Anthea was close behind, she held a large colorfully wrapped box that she placed next to the gift table and then moved to the far corner of the room to use her phone.

"Nice to see you again John, how is Hamish taking to that new brand of detergent you recently started purchasing? You know, young children tend to be more sensitive to such things."

Mycroft said swiftly as he tapped his umbrella on the ground. Mary, Bill, and Mike looked shocked. Molly and Lestrade simply shrugged because they were used to such Holmsian comments.

"Nice of you to notice. He really hasn't shown any changes."

John answered with a bit of amusement in his voice. He always found those strange observations oddly comforting; it was nice to know he had so many people looking out for him even if some of them did it in a way that reminded him far too much of Sherlock.

"I see your mother and sister have failed to arrive… what a pity."

Mycroft commented and though he was trying to merely state the fact, but John detected just a hint of real emotion. The politician did in fact care for the doctor and what went on at Baker Street. They'd grown close through their mutual love of that mad detective and were invested in the other's happiness. Even John had take it upon himself to finally insist that the man ask Anthea out on a date as they had clearly been harboring feelings for each other for some time. It was a good move too; he hadn't seen the man so happy in years.

"It's alright, Harriet is off doing god knows what. She said she was busy but the letter had blotches on it where she'd spilled beer so… whatever. And I haven't heard from my mom in years, I didn't really expect her to come anyway. I just thought she might want to meet her grandson is all."

John replied with a weak smile. Bill gripped his should sympathetically and covered John's shirt with crumbs in the process. Sarah chose that moment to walk back over and grin widely at her favorite employee.

"He's so adorable John, and he seems to have collected quite a fan base. I dare say those three would have beaten me if I tried to carry that boy off."

Sarah joked playfully and every one but Bill made an amused noise.

"It's sickening, you should watch them John. They will subject him to tortures if you don't"

Bill warned, though no one seemed to take him seriously.

"Oh they're harmless. Just… zealous."

Sara replied and they all fell into friendly chatter shortly after. They opened gifts not long after that and Hamish was slightly confused by the whole process and in no way could he open any of the gifts on his own and even became a bit bored with rolling in the wrapping paper after a while. Mycroft left when they were serving up the cake Mrs. Hudson had made; he muttered something about a diet and then went out the door. Mary stopped Bill when he went for a fourth piece and John laughed when the grown man began to pout. David managed to get frosting on his cheek which William promptly licked off making Bill nearly have a heart attack. Sarah and Mike began discussing the recent cold going around during clean up and Mrs. Hudson informed them that no one needed to hear about runny noses while digesting.

Mrs. Hudson stayed for a while after the party to help clean up. They put away all of the dishes and she changed Hamish while John organized all of the baby's new toys. Soon enough though it was just father and son again and John let out a sigh of relief. The party had been something he'd been stressing over for some time. He wanted everything to be perfect. After he put Hamish down for the night he looked through the pictures that Mrs. Hudson had taken and he smiled. It was so nice that it had all turned out well. Hamish looked happy in all of the pictures and so did all of the guests. It was a miracle John had been able to relax enough to enjoy it as well.

Despite how great the day had been John couldn't help but feel a wave of grief. It wasn't everyday that he thought about how horrible it was to live without Sherlock. There were days he could be happy and live almost normally, pretend as though there weren't a huge part of him missing. But during the holidays, and big events like this, it was the worst. Because all he could think about was how the one person he really wanted there would never be. He hadn't been there when Hamish took his first step, or when he'd had his first bite of baby food, or even when he'd been born. He'd never know Hamish existed. It seemed so unfair. Like he'd been robbed of his happily ever after. Because he knew that's what that was. Sherlock was the love of his life, but Hamish was his little angel. To have them both would be pure bliss and he knew it, and it hurt. Before he could even get worked up over the crushing thought of just how wonderful it could have all been he heard a cry from upstairs. He rushed up, mindful of the fourth step as always, and made his way into the nursery.

Hamish was standing in the crib and holding out his chubby fingers towards John. There were tears streaming down his face and John made a shushing noise as he picked up the baby. After a few minutes of rocking John looked around for Hamish's blanket and soon found it was no where in sight. He moved down stairs and found it lying in Sherlock's old chair and he picked it up quickly and handed it to the whimpering babe. After a few moments of sniffles John stopped rocking and began moving to take Hamish back to his crib. The boy let out a weak cry as John set foot on the first step. The soldier back away immediately which seemed to please the child. John let out a sigh and made his way over to the sofa.

John wasn't sure how much time had passed but soon enough he was laying on the couch with Hamish curled up on his chest and he was moments away from sleep himself. He looked down at the sleeping baby and smiled fondly. This was _his_ boy he thought. He had Mary's brown hair and full lips, but he was his son. The thought mad John so happy he couldn't suppress the large smile that broke out if he tried. And he didn't want to, because in that moment he was just so happy. He had spent the day with friends and people he considered family. He had spent it laughing, and joking, and being surrounded by people cared for him. And now he was holding the one person on earth who meant the world to him, the whole world, and he knew it.

Hamish was so small, and so perfect, and John felt so happy just to be a part of his life. To hold that tiny body against his broad chest and feel the small puffs of breath as he slept. Those little fingers were gripping his shirt tightly and there was a tiny smile forming on his lips as he dreamed. John wanted to keep it there forever, and he knew he'd do almost anything to do it to. And for the first time in a long time John realized that just laying their on the sofa, curled up with his son, he was genuinely happy. He missed Sherlock, he still mourned him, but he had found a way to be happy again. Hamish was his saving grace. John felt tears forming in his eyes and he let out a little huff of a laugh. He was happy, he was _really _happy, and he hadn't been in so long the thought seemed almost impossible.

"Three years, it took almost three years."

John whispered. He felt an unfamiliar swirl of emotions as he considered it. There was no way he could have pictured himself where he was at the beginning of it. In fact he'd assumed he'd be dead by now. Despite how miserable it had been, despite how horrible and tragic Sherlock's death had been, it had brought forth this perfect moment.

He was happy, and now he was almost certain he always would be.


	32. Chapter 32

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 32**

**There are only two chapters left I think! But there will be a third story!**

The city looked beautiful, far more beautiful than he'd ever remembered. All of the colors seemed brighter, the air fresher, and the sounds more musical. He'd always loved the city, never dreamed of leaving it, but he never thought it would feel this good to return to it. There was a splendid amount of traffic which provided him with a slow reintroduction to his first love. However while he was thrilled to be soaking in the sights and sounds of his beloved home, there were many other things he was itching to do.

He wanted to have a cup of Mrs. Hudson's tea, god he hadn't had her tea in so long (or any tea for that matter). He wanted to see Lestrade, he wanted to hear him ask for the detective's help and reprimand him for yelling at victims. He wanted to insult Anderson and tell Sally that she'd gained weight. He wanted to see Molly and thank her for everything she'd done. He wanted to eat dinner at Angelo's. He even wanted to see his brother again and tell him what a wanker he was, but that he was glad he'd helped him finally catch Moran. But more than anything, more than any of those things combined, he wanted to see John. He wanted to hold him in his arms, kiss his pink lips, run his fingers through those blonde spikes, and he wanted to spend the rest of his life apologizing for what he'd done.

Sherlock wasn't sure how John would handle his reappearance, but he just prayed that he'd take him back. If he didn't, he wasn't sure how he could handle that. However at the very least he needed to explain it, he needed to let John know why he'd done it. Yes, it had been for reasons that he now realized were stupid, but he needed to tell him. Sherlock needed to explain himself, and then he needed to tell him why it had taken him so long, to tell him about Moran and all of the hoops he had to jump through to catch the man. Which he'd done just three days ago. He gave himself three days to wash up and rest up for his arrival. He'd developed a bit of a smell given that he'd been working non-stop the past two months.

Moran had made it to London, and with one final half baked plan to take out John. He was making plans to move to a flat across the street. He had gotten as far as killing some tenants so that he would have the perfect room to make a clean shot from his building to John's. However Sherlock had made it just in time to stop the man before the flat even went up for sale. It was close, far too close, closer than the bomb had been. But then Moran had been desperate but not enough that he didn't cover his tracks well. Thankfully Sherlock was clever enough that it didn't matter much how well the sniper covered his tracks, he could deduce his moves.

None of that mattered now though. He was on his way back to Baker Street and would soon be reunited with John. The thought made him tingle with excitement and just a bit of anxiety as well. John was to be the first person he saw upon returning, just as it should be. Mycroft had called him twenty times since he sent a fax saying he was returning but the detective ignored him. His brother could wait a few more days. In fact the politician would wait until John had all of his questions answered and was given all he required. Sherlock had no plans of doing anything until John was pleased.

When he reached Baker Street and looked up at his old home his heart swelled. He'd never been so happy to see the old thing. The detective made his way over to the door and found that they still had the same locks and cheered internally as he wouldn't have to wait and be intercepted by Mrs. Hudson. No, the first person to lay eyes on him had to be John. He opened the door with little problem and shut it quietly behind himself, then with stealthy movements made his way up to their door. For a moment all he could do was stare at the entrance and listen to a loud roaring in his ears. His heart was pounding loudly and his stomach was doing back flips. However the urge to see John was overwhelming and out weighed any fears he had.

Without another moment of hesitation Sherlock knocked on the door and felt goose bumps rise on every surface of his body. He could hear John moving around inside, he'd been sitting in the living room by the sounds of it, but he was talking to someone. Sherlock was concerned for a moment but he considered that it could be any number of people who would likely leave once they saw how important it would be for them to be alone. When the door knob turned he could have screamed, but he remained silent with a large smile growing on his face.

"Hel-"

John began to greet but stopped short when he came into sight of the tall figure from his past. Sherlock looked down at him and felt his heart burst. John was just as perfect as he'd remembered, though there were some clear differences. He was a bit darker from his time spent in Afghanistan. There were more lines on his face; he'd been put through hell. Sherlock's chest tightened at the thought and continued to observe the man he'd waited so long to see. His eyes were swimming with emotion, the biggest one being shock.

"John, it's me, I-John?"

Sherlock was cut short as John's eyes rolled to the back of his head and his entire body began tipping backwards.

"John!"

Sherlock cried out as he reached forward and caught the blonde before he could hit the ground. He noted that John felt heavier than he remembered which he realized was because he was also more muscular after training with the army. Carefully the detective did his best to carry John into the living room. Once he'd place John on the sofa he instantly realized something was wrong. The flat was wrong. There were multiple clues indicating that a baby was residing at 221b and there was no sign of John's guest. He looked around nervously for a moment before his eyes landed on a blue eyed baby who was staring at him from inside of a play pin. Sherlock's eyes grew to the size of dinner plates and he looked from the baby back to John and could tell that there was no way those eyes did not belong to the man passed out on the couch.

Sherlock's world was spinning out of control quickly; he hadn't expected John to have a child. No one had told him, he had no idea. The detective searched the room quickly and found that no one else was living with them, which was good, John wasn't married then. But who's-Mary! That night… but she wasn't here? They didn't stay together, but John had taken the child? Sentiment, John was a fan of it. Sherlock was relieved John wasn't with anyone from what he could observe, and hadn't been for sometime. Though it appeared Mycroft had come by to bug the place after he'd received Sherlock's fax. Clearly this had to have been at least one of the reasons his brother had been so desperately trying to reach him.

"Dada?"

The baby called from the play pin, presumably in an attempt to communicate with his father. Sherlock felt dizzy as he considered what he'd walked into. He knew little about babies or how to care for them, and had honestly not given any thought to the matter of having any of his own. Obviously John would not part with this infant so Sherlock would have to grow to like it as well. However at the moment it seemed a bit terrifying. When would John wake up? Would the baby need anything before then? He moved forward and observed the small baby. It was curious as it seemed more confused by Sherlock's presence than concerned. How like his father. Sherlock smiled nervously and leaned forward to study the baby more closely.

"Hello."

He said uncertainly, he'd never introduced himself to a baby before, but he could think of little else to do. The baby looked perplexed and Sherlock knew that he'd seen that look many times before; this child had John's expressive face to be sure.

"Uh."

The baby huffed loudly in response and reached forward to grab a hold of Sherlock's hair. He tugged on one curl and watched with surprised curiosity as it sprung back to the man's head when he released it. Clearly he wasn't used to curly hair. Sherlock moved further back as he disliked having his hair pulled but couldn't help but smirk at the baby's yearning to learn.

"You are your father's son… I suppose you won't be so horrible."

Sherlock mused out loud and wondered what it would be like to live with a baby. That was assuming John allowed him to. He hoped so, he hoped with every fiber of his being. Just being in the flat filled him with a joy he hadn't known since he left it.

"Dada!"

The baby yelled and Sherlock turned to see John sitting up on the sofa.

"Hamish?"

He questioned groggily looking quizzically over towards the play pin until locking eyes with the detective.

"John!"

Sherlock called out and offered a large apologetic smile as he stood tall. However he soon found that it was his turn to pass out, only he had a bit of help.


	33. Chapter 33

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 33**

"Dada?"

John's mind was brought back to focus by the distressed tone in his son's voice. He looked down to see a very concerned boy and a very living detective. To say he was surprised was a major understatement. Sherlock was sprawled out on the floor with a red mark already forming on his face. John could hardly even begin to process it. At first all he felt was betrayal and rage, which of course is what had led John to punch him. Obviously he was still angry, hurt, and confused. However part of him flooded with this sudden relief and joy, Sherlock was alive, and he was right here on the living room floor. John reached into the play pin and picked Hamish up to soothe him.

"Don't worry Hamish; the stupid man is just-um-napping. Dada was bad to hit him in front of you, hitting is not nice."

John said softly as he pet the top of his son's head. He definitely didn't like the idea of teaching Hamish violence, he never wanted to be violent in front of his son, and he hadn't been until then. These were special circumstances though and John decided he would allow it on the grounds that the love of his life was a monumental dick. Hamish clung to his father and observed the man on the floor. From what John could tell the baby was trying to reason out why he was still laying there. The blonde observed the detective as well and wondered why he'd done it. Why had he left and why did he decide to come back now? He couldn't make heads or tails of it but he was going to make damn sure Sherlock explained it when he got up. _Christ_. Sherlock, explaining his false death? The idea struck him as something out of some novella. Not to mention he hadn't considered this scenario even in his wildest fantasies. John knelt down after a moment and checked for a pulse, which he found, and then stood back up to receive and odd look from Hamish.

"God, I need some tea."

John sighed as he ran his free hand over his face.

"Tea!"

Hamish exclaimed with excitement, it was one of the few words he knew and as far as the baby was concerned tea normally meant either guests (usually Mrs. Hudson) or cartoons. He set the boy down in front of the tele and turned on something obnoxious and colorful. When he turned and looked at Sherlock he contemplated lifting the man up to prop him on the sofa, but quickly decided against it in favor of getting his tea. As far as he was concerned the detective had put John through quite enough to deserve some time on the floor. After putting the kettle on he locked the door to ensure that not even his landlady would disturb them. Once his tea was made though he looked over to see Sherlock's face again and decided it might be best if Hamish not be present.

"Come on Hamish, we're going to visit Mrs. Hudson."

John informed as cheerily as he could muster as he scooped the child back up and headed down the stairs. Hamish was a bit reluctant to leave his father, but he liked Mrs. Hudson enough that it wasn't much concern. The older woman was a bit anxious and confused about the sudden urgent need for a babysitter, but John simply promised to explain later and said he had an unexpected guest. When he made it back up the stairs the detective was on his feet rubbing his quickly forming bruise and looking about the flat nervously.

"Miss me?"

He asked as he locked the door behind himself. His voice was cold and bitter and conveyed every level of anger John held for the brunette at the moment. Sherlock turned to him quickly and his eyes were wide and expressive. He looked hurt and scared, but John had little sympathy.

"More than you'll ever know."

Sherlock admitted quietly and cast his gaze down to the floor in front of him. John's chest tightened at the emotion in his voice, and there was a part of him that wanted to leap into the detective's arms and hold the man for as long as he could. In fact all he really wanted to do was to kiss him and to touch him and to really just revel in the miracle that was a living, breathing Sherlock Holmes. If he did that now though he knew he'd forget all of his questions, push them aside until they started to boil up to the surface in some catastrophic explosion. No, if there was any hope for him ever sorting this out properly it would have to be before he allowed himself to indulge in the man's presence.

"Why? Why did you do it?"

John asked harshly, he didn't want to start letting his emotions get the better of him, if he had any hope of that at all it would be by acting angry rather than hurt or relieved.

"I… if I am to be honest I did it to free you. I thought that you would live a better life without me, that I was the only love you'd ever known and therefore wouldn't know better than to leave me if it was what you truly wanted. You were growing, maturing. Even in the three years I've been gone you've changed… you're not the boy who bumped into Mrs. Hudson that day at the market anymore. I thought you might want a more peaceful existence… so when Moriarty bargained my life for yours like I knew he would, I faked my death to prevent yours, and then hid away in some safe house of Mycroft's."

Sherlock explained quickly, making eye contact only once through the duration. John's hands were balled into fists and he was fighting the urge to punch the detective a second time.

"So then why are you here now? It's odd for you to ever change your mind since you're always so damn sure you're too brilliant to make a mistake. So please tell me, what made you decide to come back? Did you want to see if you were right? Did you want to drop by and tell me how you'd known all along I was really supposed to fall in love with some woman who lived down the street or something based off the way she wears her hair ties? Or were you more excited by the thought of coming here to see just how much I really did need you, that if I didn't love you then I would have been able to figure that out for myself, and I'd be able to tell you too. I didn't need you to pretend you were dead so I could spend over a year trying to have my brains blown out!"

John fumed and took a step closer as his voice raised but did his best to keep a good distance. At this point he wasn't sure what he would do if he were in reaching distance, either punch him or kiss him.

"It was nothing like that! I had to be away until Moriarty's web was destroyed, otherwise there might have been men on call to kill you or Mrs. Hudson or even Lestrade. We couldn't take that risk. When it was safe to return I'd already begun to see what a mistake I'd made, but… I saw your letters, and I knew I had to see you. Only… when I found you, you were laying on the couch with Mary… god, I didn't know you weren't going to stay with her, I thought you were moving on. I wanted you to be happy, that's all I'd ever wanted! But then you were shot and-I-I had to stop the man who'd done it. One Sebastian Moran was on your tail and planning to kill you until three days ago when I finally managed to kill him first."

Sherlock informed timidly. John stared for a moment before shaking himself back to his senses. He'd had no idea that the attack had been some stage for an elaborate revenge. Though it might have been odd if he had thought so. John felt his fists shake under the strain of how hard he was clenching them. There was still a lot of anger, Sherlock had been more than stupid, but at the moment he was just so happy that he was back. He walked over to the detective full of purpose which caused the man to flinch, but John simply ignored it. The doctor threw himself at Sherlock after a moment of doing nothing but staring. At first it was awkward, and they didn't know where to put their hands, but soon they were clinging to each other. Their hands traveled everywhere, soaking in the glory of being so close to each other again. They kissed finally and Sherlock's lips against his own felt like a blessing and he was crying but it didn't matter. He had Sherlock back, and in his arms, and it was _real._


	34. Chapter 34

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 34**

It took about a little over two months for everything to settle down enough that John could start worrying about things that weren't in regards to telling people that Sherlock was still alive. Everyone had been in an uproar over the whole ordeal. They were being followed by the media almost everywhere they went which made going to work more difficult than it really should have been. Reporters were nosy and insensitive and often asked questions that John hadn't even had the mind to ask himself yet. He didn't want to think about how badly it had hurt to be betrayed or if Sherlock would ever do it again. More importantly he didn't want to have all of London know what he thought of it. Sherlock was more concerned about John's feelings towards the media than their actual affect on himself, which was obvious by the way his attitude changed so dramatically depending on whether or not he was with John when confronted him.

Reporters were certainly a pain, but there were other problems as well. While a lot of people were confused by Sherlock's reappearance for the most part they viewed it as a good thing and something to be celebrated. There were a few who felt differently. For one, Greg had been so infuriated he also gave Sherlock a punch to the jaw. After a month passed he still refused to give him any cases or even to address him in conversation. He'd merely talk to John and make pointed comments about 'unwelcome house guests' and how he was only a phone call away. A month after that Greg was finally on speaking terms, though at first it had been more yelling than speaking, something about all the hurt he'd caused, how he'd been so worried about what John might do. Well, it was good to see he cared, and if John was honest it was nice that someone was yelling at Sherlock. He didn't have it in him to yell. He was mad to be sure, but not nearly as mad as he was happy to have the man home.

Bill also took it as a personal insult. He had a slew of names to call the detective and blamed him for more things than was probably necessary. One thing that set Bill apart from the rest was that he was the only one who after two months was still adamant about throwing Sherlock out. Greg had been so in the first week, but he settled. David had a conversation with John about what would be best for him, but otherwise no one else had even suggested it. So Bill's stance was an ill favored one, not that anyone argued against it (other than John of course). In fact Bill was so serious about it Mary and David had to talk him out of buying a plane ticket to fly over and get rid of the detective himself. John tried to put himself in his friend's position. Bill had followed John into war because of Sherlock; he supposed he might hold some resentment.

Clearly things had been complicated from all ends, because it wasn't just his friends getting upset obviously. There were nights when John clung to Sherlock and wouldn't let him out of his sight, they'd lie in bed together and John would simply hold him and revel in the fact that Sherlock was alive. Then there were other nights where he couldn't stand to look at the man. He'd take Hamish for a walk or have them sleep over at David and William's house. When Mycroft came over for the first time during the second week had been the worst example of that. John really couldn't handle it. The feeling that they'd both known. That Mycroft had looked him in the eye during the funeral, that he'd tried to comfort him and sympathize with him when he knew that Sherlock was perfectly alive and healthy. He'd gone with Hamish to visit Harry who was back on the wagon after marrying Clara. However the combination of dissipating anger, longing to be with Sherlock and his distaste for Harry and her behavior led to a quick return.

Despite the lack of cases Sherlock had remained unbelievably calm. Granted his hunt for Moran was probably one of his most involved and most difficult of chases he'd ever faced. Perhaps it was that he was just tired, but John had a suspicion that it was his way of repenting. To be fair it was a good way of going about it, John needed the peace. However after two months had passed the doctor began to suspect his change in behavior might have something to do with Hamish. Sherlock had never been a timid man, nor one to hold his tongue. Hell, the first day they met Sherlock had out right stated that John's dad abused him. So his hesitance to speak or really do anything with or around Hamish was strange. John had seen him around children before, he wasn't necessarily good with them, but he wasn't frightened of them. Normally he treated them as though they were smaller adults.

So by the two month mark John returned from work after managing not to run into a single reporter and could think about something other than Sherlock's return. Instead he would think about why this was happening, and how to fix it. Hamish was his son, and Sherlock was the love of his life. The two of them would naturally be spending a lot of time together. In fact, John had imagined Sherlock would help him raise the boy. The detective's feelings on the matter were obviously of high importance and John was anxious to solve the problem (whatever it was) quickly. John there for decided to broach the issue of Sherlock's lack of work first since it seemed like the more manageable of the problems, perhaps if he could get Sherlock to explain why he hadn't been looking for cases it would be easier to asses his mental state and from there what might be causing his odd behavior involving Hamish.

Once Hamish was in bed for the night John entered the kitchen where Sherlock was working on one of the experiments that the doctor had packed away all those years ago. He'd recently unpacked all of his things and begun just a day a go to start all of the experiments again, so he'd been glued to his microscope the entire day. John made himself a cup of tea and relished the domesticity of the two of them in companionable silence, just as it had once been. When his tea was done he took a slow sip before leaning down to place a chaste kiss on the nape of the detective's neck. Sherlock straightened and looked at John curiously for a moment. They hadn't done much kissing outside of their bedroom where it was mostly frantic and full of apologies and declarations, so the touch was something new. However it didn't appear to be unwelcome so John decided to help himself to another quick peck on the man's lips this time. He'd missed such simple touches and smiled as his nerves tingled with pleasure at the contact.

"Are you busy?"

John asked with a fond smile. Sherlock looked back at his experiment briefly before turning back to reply.

"No, this is nothing that can't wait until the morning."

Sherlock said in his deep timber voice that implied so many things. Clearly he had assumed John's affections meant it was time for their almost habitual love making session to begin.

"Good I… wanted to talk to you."

John continued trying to ignore the heat building in his stomach at the sound of his lover's velvet smooth voice.

"Oh? What about?"

Sherlock inquired with less of a purr to his voice, he seemed a bit anxious about the idea of being asked anything.

"I was wondering why you haven't taken up any cases yet. I know things are still rocky with Greg, but with all the attention in the media I'm sure you've received a few inquiries on the website."

John said and then took another sip of his tea. The detective looked a way for a beat before looking back up into the blonde's eyes.

"I wasn't sure… would it be appropriate since you… you know, have Hamish now?"

Sherlock asked nervously as he fidgeted in his chair.

"To be fair, he's not really your responsibility so it's not as though you'd be tied down here to baby sit or something, besides it's not like you'll be bringing any dead bodies back here. I mean, I'd love if one day we acted more… well, um, like parents for him, but I never had any illusions that you wouldn't continue to take cases. It's part of who you are."

John explained a bit uneasily as he wasn't sure just how Sherlock would take the news of being proposed as a future care taker of a child.

"You… I… you know I'm not very good with children. Are you sure that's a good choice?"

Sherlock questioned cautiously as he shifted in his seat. If the doctor really thought about it, no, Sherlock probably wasn't a _good_ choice in a conventional sense. The detective was John's only choice though, the only one he could ever be happy with, and he knew he would try his best to be a father. Sherlock cared for John, he might have made a lot of mistakes along the way, but he always tried his best and John was sure this was no exception.

"I'm sure it's what I want. Is that why you've been acting so odd with Hamish? Are you afraid you'll do something wrong?"

John asked as he took another drink from his mug.

"No, well… yes, I suppose I'm not used to being out of my depth on a subject. I'm afraid children were never my area."

The detective admitted.

"Well, you once told me boyfriends weren't your area, now look at you."

John replied softly as he stepped forward to caress Sherlock's cheek.

"Yes, I allowed us to have such severed communication I faked my own death."

Sherlock laughed bitterly as he reached up to place his hand on top of John's.

"That was a bit not good. But I took part in that; I should have tried to talk to you as well. Anyway, we're together now. We love each other; I think that means a lot. I lived with you for about ten years and spent three years away from you and I haven't loved you any less since the first time I fell. I think that what we have is a powerful thing, and with it we can raise my boy… and maybe even solve a few cases while we do it."

John affirmed and set down his tea so he could move that hand to Sherlock's other cheek. The doctor was properly cradling the man's head now and looking deeply into his bright blue grey eyes.

"I would like that, very much."

Sherlock replied quietly.

**Ok, ok, ok. So I couldn't decide the best way to end this so I will let you. Either a cute/funny chapter about them being parents. Or a smut chapter. Up to you guys. The third story is obviously going to be all parentlock, it's a story focusing on Hamish, but he's going to be older. So if you want baby Hamish you should vote for the parentlock centric chapter. Or if you want penis you should vote for smut. It's up to you guys, vote wisely!**


	35. Chapter 35

**Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget**

**Chp 35**

**It's the final chapter! TEARS! No, but the third one should be up very soon. Could even be tomorrow. We'll see. I was going to try and take care of a few things first. But it will be really soon. I will post on here when it's up. Also you can blame yourselves for this being so late since you voted for both! I'm just kidding, but not really, you guys are lucky I love you.**

"Boring!"

Sherlock called out into the empty flat. He had been hesitant about taking cases at first as he wasn't sure how John would feel about it. For the time being John would be working with him in a similar capacity as he had in his youth. The doctor was adamant that his responsibilities to Hamish came first, there for he couldn't be out all night chasing after leads. For now he would be running errands and perhaps casing a few crime scenes, an interview here and there. Nothing extreme, and only during the day when Mrs. Hudson was available. Certainly not at night, John was a man of habit despite his lust for adventure, Sherlock had learned this long ago and though the habits had changed a bit it hadn't taken long to realize staying in at night was one of them. John liked spending his evenings with Hamish, and his Sundays. To ask him to do differently was practically an insult; it was a testament of his love for his son if nothing else.

However John's involvement in cases wasn't the problem as Sherlock called out to no one. No, the problem was there wasn't a single case of any interest and John wouldn't be home for at least another hour. He considered that there were probably still a number of things he could experiment with that could provide some outlet for his mind, but he wasn't in the mood. All he wanted was a case, well… that wasn't entirely true. What he wanted was for things to get back to normal. He wanted Lestrade to call him in for cases and make jokes and talk to John about the football match. He wanted John to tell him how brilliant he was and be so fantastically brilliant himself.

Sherlock was stuck in thought as he remembered all of the things he'd given up after faking his suicide. If he was honest he had a very real fear that things would never return to the way they once were. His musings on the matter didn't last long though as Mrs. Hudson came bustling into the flat with Hamish in one arm and her purse in another. Obviously she'd just received some important and troublesome news judging by the haste in which she'd done up her jacket, but Sherlock felt as though his deductions were off because it appeared she planned on leaving the baby in his care. He could have laughed at the absurdity.

"I need you to watch Hamish dearie."

She said in a rush as she placed the baby in his play pin. Sherlock shot off of the sofa with a fright and watched disbelievingly as the woman made ready to leave.

"You can't be serious! I've never watched a child in my life; I don't know the first thing about them!"

Sherlock argued as he followed his landlady to the door.

"John should be home in no more than an hour, I've already called him. You will be fine. He won't need to eat before John is back, and he's just woken from a decent kip. He should be fine to play until his father returns. In fact you probably won't have to do anything at all except keep an eye on him while he's in there. It's possible he could need a diaper change at some point, but I'm sure you can figure that out."

Mrs. Hudson explained in a hurry as she rushed down the stairs. Sherlock ran after her, his robe billowing out behind him as he moved.

"But where are you going? Why aren't you doing it if it's only an hour? You like children."

Sherlock reasoned as the woman began hailing a cab. He felt desperate, enough so that he seriously considered grabbing her and pulling her back into the building.

"My sister's had an accident, fallen down some stairs."

Mrs. Hudson replied simply as the cab pulled up.

"Now go back inside and see to the baby, you will be fine."

She assured with a quick peck on his cheek before leaping into the taxi. Sherlock ascended the stairs slowly as he evaluated his current position. He'd never cared for a baby before, nor had he ever planned to. Of course when John had offered that they raise Hamish together he had known there would be times he was required to care for the boy, perhaps even watch him alone. But not this soon, not until he was a bit older, perhaps even at least mildly self-sufficient. This, this was far too soon, he wasn't ready. He walked back into the living room where Hamish was playing contently in his play pin. Sherlock watched the boy cautiously as he took a seat in his chair.

An hour was a long time; lots of things could happen in an hour. Sherlock knew that, in fact it had only been five minutes but he'd already run through forty seven possible scenarios that ended horrifically. He wasn't good with children, he wasn't good with people, and John knew that. John knew that but Sherlock was well aware that the doctor would still expect him to take care of his son properly, which worried him. For the most part the detective appeared to be forgiven for his past actions, but he wasn't sure if John might still hold some resentment for him. If he were to mess this up, if Hamish were to be harmed, that could very well be the last straw. John was complicated like that, he would act as though nothing bothered him until it was all far too much and he would snap. Sherlock didn't like the thought of angering him so soon.

The baby seemed content enough. Sherlock observed the child carefully from his chair as he began to babble at a stuffed dog. From what the detective could tell the boy was going to be intelligent in a general sense, which was certainly a plus. He'd never considered children smart before as their minds were often even more underdeveloped than adult's, however in terms of relative intelligence Hamish was impressive. His understanding of objects and his surroundings was notable, which he knew for a fact because he'd been reading up on babies since his return. What John had mistaken for avoidance was actually hesitance. From what he read babies were impressionable, and he didn't want to be the one sending the wrong messages, once again another thing that would lead to an irate John.

The detective was consumed with his thoughts of impending doom in regards to watching this child, but also their future. He had never imagined his life with a child, but now he was forced to accept that this little person was going to be a big part of it. Obviously John would be less willing to allow them to take risks. So there would be no more hazardous plans or half baked schemes involving killers. That was slightly disappointing, but he'd willing to part with it so long as he could still work on cases. There were the obvious shift in responsibilities and priorities that he would have to consent to if he wanted to please John. Then, there was just Hamish.

Hamish, this whole other person he had to let into his life. He was so young, there was no telling how he would turn out, and yet he was expected to trust this child with his heart? He'd never given his heart to anyone before, John had stolen it from him, but now he was expected to just hand the remainder over to this tiny infant. As though this boy was to be able to care for such a thing. When Sherlock looked at little Hamish he knew it was only inevitable, he could fight it if he wanted, but Hamish would likely steal his heart as well. So perhaps there really was no choice, he wasn't sure if that made it better or worse though.

He considered all of the possibilities that came with raising a child with John. Hamish was to be both their child, so was he going to have input in the boy's upbringing? Part of him was excited at the thought of teaching him French as Mycroft and he had been taught in their youth. Or to have him attend the same prep school where he'd burned down half the science lab, it would be satisfying to look down on those who had once held so much power over him. In fact the more he thought about it the better it sounded. A young mind which he could mold, one that possessed John's heart, and his bravery. As he mused over the possibilities a strange odor began to over power the room. When he looked around it didn't take long to deduce that the scent was originating from the young boy sitting in the corner of his play pin.

"Damn."

Sherlock cursed under his breath and began searching for the necessary tools. There was a changing table of sorts set up by the play pin for convenience and he quickly made his way over to it. He viewed the available items in an attempt to consider what he needed. A diaper (obviously), some wipes, perhaps the diaper cream, and… no that was probably it. Sherlock assessed the now prepared changing area and gave a determined nod, how hard could it be to change a diaper?

"Come here Hamish."

Sherlock said awkwardly as he retrieved the baby. Though it certainly wasn't pleasant to breath around the freshly soiled boy, there was an odd sort of happiness in holding his tiny body close to his own. With Hamish's face so close as well it was easy to see why people made such a fuss over him, he was a rather attractive baby. His eyes were deep blue like John and seemed to possess infinite wisdom. So much so that Sherlock almost believed the baby was going to help direct him through the process. The table was low to the floor so that Sherlock was required to kneel on the ground for the proceedings. The table wasn't a table at all he noted as he set the baby on top of it. It was a large box John had used to store his things in the army with several blankets laid down on top of it. This was so that John would have an easily accessed changing spot if his limp began acting up.

Sherlock hesitantly began to undress the baby; he wasn't sure to what extent was considered appropriate so he simply took off all of the clothes to be safe. The detective eyed the diaper anxiously and took in a few calming breaths. It was only a diaper, how could he go wrong? And when John returned and saw how well he'd done the doctor would be elated. With that thought in mind he went about removing the soiled undergarments. This proved to be a more difficult thing than originally foreseen. The diaper was full of excrement and smelled even fouler when opened.

"Oh god, what has Mrs. Hudson been feeding you!"

He exclaimed as he grabbed hold of the baby's ankles with one hand to lift his buttocks off the table and quickly threw the diaper into the near by trash bin. Hamish seemed to think the detective's expression was amusing as he began giggling and attempting to wiggle about. Sherlock tried his hardest to hold the boy still while wiping him clean. It certainly wasn't a pleasant experience, but he felt as though he were managing well. When Hamish was clean he figured it might be best to apply the cream. He wasn't sure how much was needed but it was better to be safe than sorry, especially when it came to John's and his child. An odd thing to think, he pondered for a moment frozen in thought, Hamish was his now as well wasn't he? Not just John's but his as well, John had said so himself. He looked down at the squirming boy and smiled fondly.

"You're difficult like me to be sure. You will no doubt continue to be a handful."

He remarked before taking a scoop of the cream in hand. A rather shocking and terrifying event occurred as he spread the white muck liberally. Hamish decided that it was the perfect time to begin urinating. A thin stream of urine began arching upwards and before the detective realized his shoulder was being drenched with it.

"Hamish no!"

He cried out in surprise and fell backward as he attempted to dodge the rest of the urine. With a thud he landed on the floor and briefly wondered if this was common or a treat reserved just for him, he'd never seen Hamish pull something of that nature on John. He sat back up in a flash when he heard a smaller thud followed by more giggling. When he looked back at the changing table the boy was gone and from what he could tell running down the hall. He rose to his feet as fast as he could and began to make his way down the hall frantically. There were only three possible locations for Hamish to have gone: John and his bedroom, the bathroom, and the laundry closet. From what he understood children liked to hide in closets during games so he checked there first. No sign of Hamish. Next was their bedroom, he searched high and low, but there was no sign of Hamish. Sherlock was beginning to feel dread along with a steady stream of fear as he opened the door to the bathroom. There was no sign of Hamish.

"Hamish! Where are you! This isn't funny young man; you need to come out this instant!"

Sherlock demanded, but there was no answer, not even a giggle. The pit of his stomach dropped ten feet. If Hamish was harmed John would never forgive him. If Hamish was harmed Sherlock wasn't sure if he'd forgive himself. He wasn't overly familiar with how children played so he wasn't sure where to start, but he began opening cabinets and drawers.

"Hamish!"

He called out again in a panic. If the boy was hurt he would have no idea until he found him. Sherlock dashed back to the bedroom and looked under the bed a second time, then ran back to the hall closet to search all of the shelves and even inside the mop bucket.

"Sherlock? Is everything alright? I got permission to leave work early after Mrs. Hudson called."

John announced as he set his work bag on the floor. He studied Sherlock's frozen posture and horrified expression for a moment before looking about the room.

"Where's Hamish?"

The blonde asked carefully as he approached the detective.

"I… John, I was changing him, and he peed, and then I was on the floor, and… and, he ran off down the hall and I can't find him."

Sherlock admitted frightfully. He was becoming truly concerned for the boy's location and for John's reaction to the situation.

"Did he now?"

John replied far more calmly than Sherlock could ever imagine.

"Yes… aren't you worried? I-he could be hurt."

The detective continued nervously. John smiled at him fondly for a beat before motioning for him to follow. The doctor entered the bathroom and went straight for the laundry basket. He opened it up and reached inside to pull out a baby boy who had just begun to giggle loudly.

"He always hides in the same spot. He figured out how to climb onto the toilet and into the basket. Tricky spot, not many would think to look there since normally it would be too high up."

John explained as he ruffled his son's brown mop of hair with something that looked an awful lot like pride.

"He… couldn't he hurt himself like that? Fall down? These are tiled floors, I don't think I need remind you just how hard tile is. If he were to land on his head… he could be seriously injured."

Sherlock argued nervously eying the toilet. It wouldn't be hard to slip on the porcelain surface of the lid. John smiled as he exited the bathroom and made his way back to the changing table.

"True, he could get hurt. But that's part of growing up. He's done it before and he's sure to do it again."

John replied serenely as he placed a new diaper on the now pliant baby. Sherlock gaped at him for a moment before shaking his mind clear.

"Surely you can't mean that, he's so fragile-"

"Fragile? Are you kidding me? He's a Watson, there's nothing fragile about him! He's going to be tough just like his dad, right Hamish?"

He answered with equal parts amusement as pride. John tickled the boy's stomach relentlessly for a few minutes before answering for him.

"Damn right he is, not every baby could take a tickling like that."

The doctor said simply as he began to dress the boy. Sherlock watched in awe for a few moments as he considered what had just happened. Sherlock Holmes had become the worried one.

* * *

John hadn't expected to come home to find Sherlock on the edge of tears because the baby had hidden in the laundry basket, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't find it amusing. It was a bit troubling that Hamish's behind had been so smothered in diaper cream that he was certain his blue jumper would be stained from the baby's stay in the hamper. However he couldn't bring himself to care. Sherlock's concern both amused and elated him. He'd never expected the detective to take to the boy so quickly, he'd never been fond of children, and so it was heart warming to know the man already cared.

Better yet was that his son had done something no other man would likely accomplish and keep their life, he'd peed on him. Just imagining that moment of shock on the detective's face sent him into fits. He spent a good amount of time laughing about it as they put Sherlock's clothes in the wash. The man didn't seem very pleased at the mockery but he didn't take it out on Hamish which was a good sign. In fact even after the scare Sherlock seemed far more taken with the boy. John felt a little tendril of hope that they might be a semi-functioning family yet.

His hope skyrocketed when Sherlock asked to join John in his nightly ritual in putting Hamish to sleep. John sat with Hamish perched in his lap while sitting in the rocking chair in the boy's room, feeding him his last bottle for the day. Hamish was just at that age that he'd begun to wean him off of bottles, but John was sure the night time feeding would be the hardest to do away with. Hamish was a fan of his bedtime routine and it would be hard to break him from it. Moving on to a sippy with regular milk was probably the best solution, but at the moment he wasn't overly concerned. Hamish held onto his bottle, suckling away as John read him Dr. Seuss's 'I can read with my eyes shut'. Sherlock seemed surprisingly captivated by the scene as he sat by the rocking chair observing them. Hamish looked a bit confused at first but didn't appear bothered, which was another plus. Once the boy was in his crib they exited the room quietly.

They didn't speak much as they sat watching the television but it was mostly because John was thinking. He was thinking about how perfect it felt to have Sherlock back after all this time, and to have him growing closer to Hamish. The doctor considered this as he shifted on the sofa so that he was leaning into Sherlock and soaking in his warmth. It felt so good to be near the man again, to know that he was always at the very least a phone call away. He let his cheek rest on the detective's chest as the man wrapped his arm around him. John had missed moments such as these where they were simply enjoying the other's company.

When the program ended Sherlock angled himself so that He could see John's face as he rested on the man. The blonde smiled and tilted his own head so they could look at each other eye to eye. Sherlock seemed pleasantly confused by their closeness but still said nothing. John just looked for a moment before leaning up to place a delicate kiss on the man's plush lips. The detective responded well and followed after John's mouth when he began to pull away. The kiss continued with slow and tentative brushes of lips against lips until Sherlock was on top the doctor and pressing him into the sofa cushions. John allowed the man to slowly open up his mouth and slip his tongue inside. After some languid kisses Sherlock lifted himself to look at John.

"What brought this on?"

He inquired as he gazed into John's eyes.

"I don't know… the way you were with Hamish today, it was cute. It made me feel like we're a real family."

The doctor admitted and looked away for a beat as he did.

"Really? Heart warming family moments? Is that what gets you off now?"

Sherlock asked mockingly and John swatted his chest in retaliation.

"You'll keep your mouth shut if you have any hopes of getting your leg over tonight."

John scorned but Sherlock only smirked wickedly at the comment.

"Oh, yeah? Is that so?"

He questioned mischievously as he lowered himself to begin lavishing the doctor's neck. John gasped at the contact and stifled a moan as Sherlock's tongue licked at the hallow of his throat.

"Mmm, you taste nice you know."

Sherlock commented as he began to do away with John's shirt. His fingers worked quickly to do away with the buttons as his mouth moved down to the blonde's collar bone. John arched into the touch before he could stop himself.

"Wait, wait!"

He interrupted as he tried to break free from Sherlock's hold on him.

"Why, what's wrong?"

The detective asked a bit nervously.

"Nothing, I just don't really think it's appropriate for us to shag on the sofa any more."

John explained as he sat up.

"Why?"

Sherlock asked incredulously.

"Well, we're parents now. There's a kid up there. I don't feel very comfortable having sex in the same room he plays in every day. I mean he sits on the sofa at times as well; we should show a little restraint."

John continued.

"I suppose so, but I really like the idea of debauching you right on our couch. And I think I deserve a reward, I did get peed on today. How about a mercy fuck?"

The detective purred wickedly and leaned in to kiss John's neck again. The doctor sighed lightly at the touch and was lost for just a moment before pushing the man away again.

"You can have your reward, but in the bedroom. Now move it before I change my mind."

John ordered and pushed himself off of the sofa. Sure enough the detective followed right behind him into the bedroom. They stripped of their clothes with a precision that was only obtained after years of practice. Sherlock began kissing him again after they were finally free of everything. Their naked bodies pressed together in the dim lighting of the room brilliantly and it wasn't long before they were panting for breath. John led the taller man over to the bed and let him slide on top. Sherlock felt so right above him, kissing him passionately, letting their tongues slide together in a perfect rhythm. The detective's mouth tasted like something sharp and spicy and it only fueled the flames burning within him. Once they began rutting into each other's hips, and they were moaning with increasing intensity, Sherlock pushed himself up just enough so that they weren't touching. They both groaned at the loss of contact, until the brunette located the lube from the dresser drawer by the bed and pushed two determined digits inside of John's entrance.

"Oh god! Yes, Sherlock, _yes_!"

John cried out as his lover rubbed his prostate teasingly. He was loosening him up, and it wasn't taking long considering how frequently they'd been doing this since the return. When the third finger found its way in John gasped and couldn't stop himself from rocking his hips and allowing Sherlock to fuck him with his fingers. John could feel himself getting close and pulled at the detective's arm so he could stop the overwhelming sensations. Once Sherlock moved away the doctor turned him so that the man was laying on his back, head propped up on the pillow. John kissed him on his lips urgently for a few minutes before trailing his way down the lean man's body. Sherlock hissed and gasped at the feel of John's mouth claiming ever last part of him. Until the blonde finally made it down to his prick.

"John, oh god, I need more."

Sherlock called out thickly in a deep voice that sent vibrations all the way down to John's cock. The doctor obliged by dipping his head and licking the tip of Sherlock's penis, tasting the precum that was swelling up through the slit. The detective whimpered at the touch and jerked his hips forward. John took as much as he could into his mouth and allowed the man to pump himself into the blonde. Sherlock was moaning steadily now as John started to suck and work his tongue along the prick. When he could feel the man getting too close he pulled off with a slick pop that made Sherlock shudder.

"Ready?"

John asked breathily as he positioned himself above Sherlock's thick cock. The detective could do nothing but nod and bite into his lower lip furiously. John lowered himself, using one hand to guide the penis into his entrance and the other to steady himself. When he was fully seated and resting on the man's hips he felt a shiver run through his body. It felt so good to feel Sherlock's dick filling him up. So good in fact he didn't move at all until a minute must have passed and Sherlock lifted his hips up impatiently. John gasped as somehow more of the detective pushed in and pressed against his aching prostate.

"You feel s-so good John, so tight!"

Sherlock called out roughly as John rolled his hips and braced himself against the man's chest.

"Oh-oh, god, I don't know how much more of this I can take, especially if you're going to be talking like that."

John panted out and Sherlock replied by thrusting deep inside him. John shouted out far louder than he would have liked and rocked against the older man's cock helplessly. He could feel himself drawing closer.

"Oh, god, I'm going to come!"

John moaned loudly and his hips made faster jerkier movements as he got closer to the edge.

"Nnnngh! Oh! Go ahead, come, I w-want to see you do it."

Sherlock gasped as he reached out to take John's prick in hand and begin pumping it furiously.

"Sherlock! Oh, fuck!"

He yelled desperately as he came all over the older man. John was out of breath and almost completely unaware that he was being moved. Sherlock pressed John to the mattress so that his stomach was resting on the sheets, and for a moment nothing happened, and then Sherlock started back up. He hadn't climaxed yet and John's post-coitus lethargy apparently wasn't going to do the job. So the detective thrust himself in and out at a much faster pace, making John's body practically bounce off the bed with its force.

"Yes, yes, yes! Nnhh!"

Sherlock mewled as his cock pushed deeper and deeper inside until his balls were being caressed by the cleft of John's arse. The blonde was so hyper sensitive having come so recently that he was making the most delicious whimpering noises that drove Sherlock crazy. Finally the man came with a cry so loud that if Mrs. Hudson hadn't been out to see her sister surely would have woken her from her sleep.

"Fuck, that was fantastic John, oh fuck."

Sherlock breathed out as he moved off of the younger man. John retrieved something to clean them up before they curled up next to each other. Sherlock was the first to fall asleep surprisingly enough and John found that he was alone with his thoughts. He thought of how fantastic the day had been, from the eggs Mrs. Hudson made for breakfast, to the touching family moments, and ending with the brilliant shag with Sherlock. It had been a perfect Thursday he thought as he shifted beneath the blankets to get closer to the detective. However he couldn't quite remember if it had been entirely perfect, when he thought back his memories of the work portion of his day were a bit fuzzy. Though he wasn't sure there had been many days in his life that he would remember with absolute clarity.

In fact, once he put his mind to it there were only four Thursdays he could think of that he could remember down to every last detail. The first had been the day Sherlock faked his death. Only at the time John hadn't known that, and the memory still held a lot of pain and fear for him. The second had been when he was shot. He could never forget that, especially not the look in Bill's eyes as they'd rode back to base. The third had been Hamish's birth. Mary had been in a lot of pain, but surprisingly quiet. She was a strong woman, and it took over seven hours for Hamish to finally arrive, and when he did and John held him for the first time, he could have sworn his heart stopped. Then finally, the Thursday when Sherlock appeared at his door, alive and perfectly in tact. His heart had probably stopped then too.

Yes, as John snuggled into Sherlock's side he was certain those were four Thursdays he would never forget.


	36. Chapter 36

**The first chapter to the third installment is up! It is titled "A Boy In Need". **


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